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PUBLIC LIBRARY; JUN 2 01962
Harpefs Magazine
INDEX
\or
Volume 223
July 1961 December 1961
18G7S5
HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS • NEW YORK
Harper's Magazine
HARPER &: BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS • NEW \' O R R
INDEX
Volume 223 • July 1961 . . . December 1961
Actual titles are in quotations; subject matter in capital type.
"Aborigine, The Invisible" — Eu-
gene Burdick, Sept. 69
Advertising, Product-less, Oct. 30
AFTER HOURS
Advertising, Oct. 30
"Canada, Culture-Struck," Aug. 16
"Car for Sale," Nov. 26
"Case of the Vanishing Product," Oct.
30
Catalogues, Trade, Oct. 32
Fanny, Filming of, July 14
"Invasion of Marseilles," July 14
"Monk Talk," Sept. 21
"Throwaways, Precious," Oct. 32
"You Tell Them, Pop — You've Got
the Vox," Dec. 20
Yuletide Greetings, Dec. 22
Agency for International De-
velopment, Nov. 12
"America Under Pressure" — Adlai
E. Stevenson, Aug. 21
ARCHITECTURE
"Ball Park, How Not to Build A,"
Aug. 2.5
"Chicago Could Be Proud of. What,"
Dec. 34
"Lincoln Center, Culture Monopoly
at," Oct. 82
"New Vision in Architecture," July 73
"Art and Society" — Kenneth C^lark,
Aug. 74
"Art of Photography, On the" —
Henri Cartier-Bresson, Nov. 73
ARTS, THE
"Art and Society," Aug. 74
"Art Books," Dec. 87
"Art of Photography," Nov. 73
"Feifier, Jules, and the Almost-in-
Group," Sept. 58
Lincoln Center, Oct. 82
Music, See also
Theatre, See also
Writing and Publishing, See also
Auchincloss, Louis — The Master
Journalist of American Fiction,
Nov. 124
Australian Aborigine, Sept. 69
AUTOMOBILES
"Car for Sale," Nov. 26
Baby, Yvonne — Henri Cartier-Bres-
son on Art of Photography, Nov.
73
"Ball Park, How Not to Build A"
— Allan Temko, Aug. 25
Bart, Peter B. - A W^arning to Wall
Street Amateurs, July 21
Barthelmc, Donald— The Case of the
Vanishing Product, Oct. 30
Begonia Belle, S. S., Oct. 80
"Bernstein, Leonard, the American
Offenbach?" — Disctis, Sept. 104
Birch Society, The John, Oct. 48
"Bird on the Mesa, A" — William
Eastlake, Oct. 57
Birth Control in India, Nov. 79
Blind River, Canada, Sept. 81
"Blocked Feed, A" — Nigel Dennis,
Dec. 79
Bloom, Murray Teigh — Your Un-
known Heirs, Aug. 29
Boats, Old River, Oct. 80
Bodsworth, Fred — Canada's Luxury
Ghost Town, Sept. 81
BOOKS
"Books in Brief" — Katherine Gauss
Jackson, July 99; Aug. 91; Sept.
101; Oct. Ill; Dec. 102
Lewis, Sinclair, Review of Mark
Schorer's Bioc.rai'HV of, Nov. 124
"New Books "— Paul Pickrel, July 91;
Stanley Kiuiitz, Aug. 86; Irving
Kristol, Sept. 96; Alfred Kazin, Oct.
104; Paul Pickrel, Nov. 109; Louis
Auchincloss, Nov. 124; Leo Stein-
berg, Dec. 87
"Precious Throwaways," Oct. 32
Borgenicht, Miriam —Teachers Col-
lege: An Extinct Volcano, July 82
Boroff, David — Eager Swarthmore,
Oct. 139
Boyd, Robin— The New Vision in
Architecture, July 73
Bullard, W. E. — Guinean Diary,
Dec. 69 '
Burdick, Eugene— The Invisible
Aborigine, Sept. 69
BUSINESS AND ECONOMICS
"Kennedy's Economists, " Sept. 25
"Money Bait," Sept. 10
"Private Eye to Industry, " Nov. 61
"Strange Romance Between John L.
Lewis and Cyrus Eaton," Dec. 25
Cahn, Edmond — How to Destroy
the Churches, Nov. 33
Caldwell, Nat and Gene S. Graham
— Strange Romance Between Cy-
rus L. Eaton and John L. Lewis,
Dec. 25
CANADA
"Canada's Luxury (ihost lown,"
Sept. 81
"C;ullurc-Struck Canada." Aug. 16
"Quebec's Revolt Against the Cath-
olic Schools," July 53
"CIanada's Luxury' (iiiosi Town" —
Fred BodswortiL Sept. 81
Candlestick Park. San Francisco,
Aug. 25
"Car for Sale"— J. \. Maxtone
Graham, Nov. 26
Carleton, William G. — Cult of Per-
sonality Comes to the White
House, Dec. 63
"Cartier-Bresson, Henri, on the
Art of Photography" — Yvonne
Baby, Nov. 73
"Case of the Vanishing Product"
— Donald Barthelme, Oct. 30
Catalogues, Trade, Oct. 32
Central Intelligence Agency, Oct.
43
Cliapin, Miriam — Quebec's Revolt
Against the Catholic Schools, July
53
Gihapman, John L. — The Uncanny
World of Plasma Physics, Oct. 64
Chase, Richard — The New Campus
Magazines, Oct. 168
"Chicago Could Be Proud of.
What" — Elinor Richey, Dec. 34
Christian Anti-Communism Cru-
sade, Texas, Oct. 52
"Christmas List" — John P ischer,
Dec. 15
"Churches, How to Destroy the"
— Edmond Cahn, Nov. 33
"C.l.A. Mv Escape from the" —
Hughes Rudd. Oct. 43
City Center, New York, Oct. 82
City-Country Living, Problems in,
Sept. 33
"City Streets, Violence in the" —
Jane Jacobs, Sept. 37
Clark, Kenneth — .Art and Sotiety,
Aug. 74
Clarke, .'Krthur C. — I he LIscs of the
Moon, Dec. 56
"Cla.ssroom, The Wasted"— Natiian
Glazer, Oct. 147
Coal Industry, Dec. 25
Cold War, Our Present, Aug. 83
Coleman, Ornetfe, Jazz Player,
Oct. 69
COLLEGE SCENE SUPPLEMENT,
Oct. 119-182
Boroli, Da\id — Eager Swartiunorc,
139
"Clhancc What Comes"— Christoplier
Hoi)son, 177
Ciiasc, Ridiard— Ihe New Cam])us
Magazines, 168
"Classroom, The Wasted" — .Nathan
(.lazcr, 147
"C:ommon Predicament. 1 he "— Judy
Roses, 145
DeMott, Benjamin— How Iluy
Might Teach, 153
DeVree, Charlotte — The Young
Negro Rebels, 133
"Eager Swarthmore" — David Boroff .
139
"Examination, The" — W. D. Snod-
grass, 154
Glazer, Nathan — The Wasted Class-
room, 147
"God in the Colleges" — Michael
Novak, 173
Hobson, Christopher — Chance What
Comes, 177
"How They Might Teach" — Ben-
jamin DeMott, 153
Illustrations — David Attie, 120, 131,
137, 148, 161; Norma-Jean Koplin.
154
Jencks, Christopher — The Next
Thirty Years in the Colleges, 121
Levine, Milton I. and Maya Pines —
Sex: The Problem the Colleges
Evade, 129
McCorquodale, Marjorie — What
They'll Die for in Houston, 179
"Mirage of College Politics"— Philip
Rieff, 156
"Negro Rebels, The Young" — Char-
lotte DeVree, 133
"New Campus Magazines, The" —
Richard Chase, 168
"Next Thirty Years in the Colleges,
The" — Christopher Jencks, 121
Novak, Michael — God in the Col-
leges, 173
Pines, Maya — Sex: The Problem the
Colleges Evade, 129
"Polish Student Life, Notes on" —
Reuel K. Wilson, 164
"Politics, The Mirage of College" —
Philip Rieff, 156
Rieff, Philip — The Mirage of College
Politics, 156
Roses. Judy — The Common Predica-
ment, 145
"Sex: The Problem the Colleges
Evade" — Milton I. Levine and
Maya Pines, 129
Snodgrass, W. D. — The Examination,
154
"Swarthmore, Eager" — David Boroff,
139
"Wasted Classroom, The" — Nathan
Glazer, 147
"What They'll Die for in Houston" —
Marjorie McCorquodale, 179
Wilson, Rcuel K. — Notes on Polish
Student Life, 164
"Young Negro Rebels" — Charlotte
DeVree, 133
"Colleges, The Next Thirty Years
IN the" — Christopher Jencks, Oct.
121
"Comeback of the State Depart-
ment" — Joseph Kraft, Nov. 43
"Comedy, The Future, If Any, of"
— James Thurber, Dec. 40
COMMUNISM
"Guinean Diary." Dec. 69
"Polish Student Life, Notes on," Oct.
164
Yugoslavia, July 10; Aug. 11
Conservative Movement in Pol-
itics, Nov. 98
Cope, Jack— The Man Who Doubted,
Aug. 54
Corke, Hilary— A Psychiatrist's Song,
Aug. 58
"Corsica Out of Season" — Wallace
Stegner, Oct. 76
Country-City Living, Problems in,
Sept. 33
COVERS XooYoO
July — Ben Robinson
August — Charles Goslin
September — Janet Halverson
October — Charles Goslin
November — Martin Rosenzweig
December — Burt Goldblatt
CRIME
"Private Eye to Industry," Nov. 61
"Violence in the City Streets," Sept. 37
Cuban Invasion, The, Aug. 83
"Cult of Personality Comes to
the White House" — William G.
Carleton, Dec. 63
"Culture Monopoly at Lincoln
Center" — Herbert Kupferberg,
Oct. 82
"Culture-Struck Canada" — Russell
Lynes, Aug. 16
Defense Secretary Robert Mc-
Namara, Aug. 41
de Hartog, Jan — Robinson Crusoe
in Florida, Aug. 34
Delius, Funeral of Federick, Nov.
89
"Democracy and Its Discontents"
— Irving Kristol, Sept. 96
DeMott, Benjamin— The Peace
Corps' Secret Mission, Sept. 63;
How They Might Teach, Oct. 153
Dennis, Nigel— A Blocked Feed, Dec.
79
Detergents, Battle with Syn-
thetic, Nov. 94
DeVree, Charlotte — The Young
Negro Rebels, Oct. 133
Discus — Music in the Round —The
New Tristan, July 102; Stravinsky
and Poulenc Conducting, Aug. 94;
Leonard Bernstein, the American
Offenbach?, Sept. 104; Bela Bar-
tok, Hungarian Composer, Oct.
116; The Illusions of Opera, Nov.
128; Masterpieces of the Past, Dec.
109
Drucker, Peter F. — Plan for Revolu-
tion in Latin Ainerica, July 31
"Eager Swarthmore" — David Bor-
off, Oct. 139
Eastlake, William— A Bird on the
Mesa, Oct. 57
EASY CHAIR, THE
"Christmas List" — John Fischer, Dec.
15
"Hamilton, Hopeful Letter to
Fowler" — John Fischer, Nov. 12
"Money Bait"— John Fischer, Sept.
10
"Point of No Return" — John Fischer.
July 10
"Private vs. Public " — Henry E. Wal-
lich, Oct. 12
"Yugoslavia, Report on" — John
Fischer, July 10
"Yugoslavia's Flirtation with Free
Enterprise" — John Fischer, Aug. 11
"Eaton, Cyrus, Strange Romance
Between John L. Lewis and" —
Nat Caldwell and Gene S. Graham,
Dec. 25
EDUCATION
"College Scene." Oct. 119-182
"Howard University," Nov. 51
"Quebec's Revolt Against the Cath-
olic Schools," July 53
Spare Time Educators, Dec. 15
Teacher Award, Dec. 19
"Teachers College," July 82
Elliot Lake, Canada, Sept. 81
Engel, Leonard — Why We Don't
Wipe Out Polio, Sept. 77
Evans, Rowland — India Experi-
ments with Sterilization, Nov. 79
Fanny, Filming of, July 14
"Feiffer, Jules, and the Almost-
in-Group" — Julius Novick, Sept.
58
FICTION
"Bird on the Mesa, .\"— William East-
lake, Oct. 57
"Blocked Feed, A" — Nigel Dennis,
Dec. 79
"In the Company of Runners"— Rich-
ard Rogin. Nov. 68
"Man Who Doubted, The" — Jack
Cope, Aug. 54
"Mr. Future" — Leo Rosten, Sept. 48
"Summer Is .Another Country" —
Christine Weston, July 27
FILLERS
"New Frontiers of Science," Oct. 42
"Common Predicament, The," Oct.
145
"Dike and the Village. The," Sept. 68
"Faith for Tough Times?" Sept. 32
"New Frontiers of Science," Oct. 42
"Same Johnny," Dec. 62
"Stolen Visit to the Theatre," Nov. 86
Fischer, John — Puzzled Report on
Yugoslavia, July 10; Yugoslavia's
Flirtation with Free Enterprise,
Aug. 11; Money Bait, Sept. 10;
Hopeful Letter to Fowler Hamil-
ton, Nov. 12; Christmas List, Dec.
15
"Florida, Robinson Crusoe in" —
Jan de Hartog, Aug. 34
"Footnote-and-Mouth Disease" —
Helene Hanff, July 58
Foreign-Aid Program, Nov. 12
FOREIGN AFFAIRS AND PLACES
"Canada, Culture-Struck," Aug. 16
"Canada's Luxury Ghost Town,"
Sept. 81
"Corsica Out of Season." Oct. 76
Fanny, Filming of, July 14
"Guinean Diary," Dec. 69
"Hamilton, Hopeful Letter to
Fowler," Nov. 12
Honduras, Aug. 63
"India, Galbraith in, " Dec. 46
"India Experiments with Steriliza-
tion," Nov. 79
"Latin America, Plan for Revolution
in," July 31
"National Talent for Offending
People, Our," Aug. 63
"Polish Student Life. Notes on," Oct.
164
"Quebec's Revolt Against the Cath-
olic Schools," July 53
"State Department, Comeback of,"
Nov. 43
Yugoslavia, July 10, .^ug. II
FRANCE
Fanny, Filming of, July 21
"Future, If Any, of Comedy, The"
— James Thurber, Dec. 40
"Galbraith in India"— Kusum Nair,
Dec. 46
"Game of Words, The " — Louis B.
Salomon, Nov. 40
Giants' Baseball Park, Aug. 25
Glazer, Nathan —The Wasted Class-
room, Oct. 147
"God in the Colleges" — Michael
Novak, Oct. 173
"Good Old Summertime" — William
S. White, Aug. 83
GOVERNMENT AND POLITICS
"America Under Pressure," Aug. 21
"C.I.A., My Escape from the," Oct. 43
"Cult of Personality Comes to the
White House," Dec. 63
"Galbraith in India." Dec. 46
"Good Old Summertime, The," .Aug.
83
"Hamilton. Hopeful Letter to
Fowler," Nov. 12
"Houston's Superpatriots." Oct. 48
"Kennedy Back in the Senate, How
to Put." Dec. 84
Kennedy s Cabinet, Sept. 92
"Kennedy's Economists," Sept. 25
"Lady from Oregon," Oct. 98
"Latin America, Plan for Revoliuion
in," July 31
"McXamara and His Enemies," -Aug.
41
"Mirage of College Politics," Oct. 1.56
"New Irresponsibles, The," Nov. 98
"New York Is Different," July 39
"Our National Talent for Offending
People, " -Aug. 63
"Peace Corps' Secret Mission," Sept.
63
"Private vs. Public Spending," Oct. 12
"State Department, Comeback of, '
Nov. 43
Surrogate's Court, Operation of, Aug.
Taxpayer's Dilemma, .Aug. 71
"\Velfare Mess, a \Vav Out of the,"
Oct. 37
Graham, Gene S. and Nat Caldwell
—The Strange Romance Between
Cyrus Eaton and John L. Lewis,
Dec. 25
Graves, Robert — Burn It:, Dec. 49
"GuiNEAN Diary" — W. E. Bullard,
Dec. 69
Halliday, Norman— The Proper
Tool Will Do the Job, Oct. 80
Hanff, Helene— The Footnote-and-
Mouth Disease, July 58
"Heirs, Your Unknown "— Murray
Teigh Bloom, Aug. 29
"Hinds, The Search for \Villiam
E." — Walter Prescott \Vebb, Julv
July 62; Nov. 21
History Today, Writing of, Oct.
104
Hobson, Christopher — Chance What
Comes, Oct. 177
Holland, Henrietta Fort — Our
Friends the Russians, Oct. 97
Honduras, The "Ugly American"
IN, Aug. 63
"Houston, What They'll Die for
in"— Marjorie K. McCorquodale,
Oct. 179
"Houston's Superpatriots" — Willie
Morris, Oct. 48
"How Not to Build a Ball Park"
— Allan Temko, .Aug. 25
"How They Might Teach ' — Ben-
jamin DeMott, Oct. 153
"How to Destroy the Churches" —
Edmond Cahn, Nov. 33
"How to Play the Unemployment-
Insurance Game" — Seth Levine,
Aug. 49
"Howard University"— Milton
Viorst, Nov. 51
Howarth. David — The Last Summer,
Nov. 89
Hughes, Ted — Her Husband, Dec.
28
Hunt, Morton M. — Private Eye to
Industry, Nov. 61
ILLUSTRATORS
-Attie, David — Photographs for Col-
lege Scene. Oct. 119-181
Banbery, Frederick E. — The Man
Who Doubted, .Aug. 54
Berry, Bill — How to Play the Un-
emplovment-Insurance Game, Aug.
49
Bodecker. N. M. — .After Hours, Julv
14; Aug. 16; Sept. 21; Oct. 30; Nov.
26; Dec. 20; .A Matter of Motive.
Aug. 71
Buonpastore, Tony— The Last Sum-
mer, Nov. 89
Burris, Burmah— On Both Your
Houses, Sept. 33
Campbell, Judy — Footnote-and-
Mouth Disease, July 58
Cartier-Bresson, Henri — On the .Art
of Photography, Nov. 73
Enos, Randall — Teachers College,
July 82
Feelings, Thomas — Summer is .An-
other Country, July 27
Feiffer, Jules — Cartoon Strip, Sept. 62
Ferro. Walter — Howard University,
Nov. 51
Fischer, Ed — Cartoon: Beggar V'io-
linist, July 102
Frankfort, Charles — The Games of
AVords, Nov. 40
Goldblatt, Burt — The "New Thing "
in Jazz, Oct. 69
Goodman, Willard — Quebec's Revolt
.Against the Catholic Schools, Jidv
53
Goro, Fritz — Photographs of the
Australian Aborigine, Sept. 69
Koplin, Norma-Jean — Mr. Future,
Sept. 48; The Examination, Oct.
154; Galljraitli of India, Dec. 46
Martin. Charles E. — New York Is
Different. July 39
Osborn. Roller t — Up to Our Necks
in Soft \Vhite Suds, Nov. 94
Papin, Joseph — Violence in the City
Streets. Sept. 37
Perlin, Bernard — Corsica Out of Sea-
son, Oct. 76
Rosenblum, Richard — Pa\ anne for a
Dead Doll, Dec. 33
Rothkin. Marlene — Our National
Talent for Offending People, Aug.
63
Simon, Christopher — My Escape from
the C.I.A. , Oct. 43
Summers, Leo Ramon — Guinean
Diary, Dec. 69; .A Blocked Feed.
Dec. 79
Thurber, James —The Future. If Any.
of Comedy, Dec. 40
^^"alker. Gil — Robinson Crusoe in
Florida, -Aug. 34; .A Bird on the
Mesa, Oct. 57; The Proper Tool
Will Do the Job, Oct. 80
Young, Ed — In the Company of Run-
ners, Nov. 68
"In the Company of Runners" —
Richard Rogin, Nov. 68
"India Experiments with Steriliza-
tion"—Rowland Evans, Nov. 79
"India, Galbraith in" — Kusum Nair,
Dec. 46
Industry, Lure to, Sept. 10
"Industry, Private Eve to" — Morton
M. Hunt, Nov. 61^
Internal Revenue Department, Aug.
71
"Invisible .Aborigine, The" — Eu-
gene Burdick, Sept. 69
Jackson, Katherine Gauss — Books in
Brief, July 99; Aug. 91; Sept. 101;
Oct. HI; Dec. 102
Jacobs, Jane —Violence in the City
Streets, Sept. 37
"Jaspan, Norman: Private Eye to
Industry" — Morton M. Hunt,
Nov. 61
"Jazz, 'The New Thing' in"— Mar-
tin Williams, Oct. 69
"Jazz Notes"— Eric Larrabee, Julv
104; Aug. 95; Sept. 105; Oct. 118;
Nov. 133; Dec. 112
Jencks, Christopher — The Next
Thirty Years in the Colleges, Oct.
121
Kazin, .\lfred — Notes on the W'riting
of History Today, Oct. 104
Kennedy, President John F.
"Good Old Summertime," Aug. 83
"Kennedy Back in the Senate, How
to Put!" Dec. 84
"Kennedy's Economists," Sept. 25
"Twelve at Table," Sept. 92
Kotlowitz, Robert — Monk Talk,
Sept. 21
Kraft, Joseph — McNamara and His
Enemies, Aug. 41; Comeback of
the State Dept., Nov. 43
Krauss, Ruth —Variations on a Leica
Form, Oct. 88
Kristol, Irving — Democracy and Its
Discontents, Sept. 96
Kunitz, Stanley — Some Poets of the
Year, .Aug. 86
Rupferberg, Herbert — Culture Mo-
nopoly at Lincoln Center, Oct. 82
LABOR
"How to Play the Unemployment-
Insurance Game," .Aug. 49
"Lady from Oregon ' — William S.
\Vhite. Oct. 98
Laing, Dilys — The Husking, Sept. 67
Language, The Vagaries of, Nov.
40
Larrabee, Eric— Jazz Notes, July 104;
Aug. 95; Sept. 105; Oct. 118; Nov.
133; Dec. 112
"Last Summer, The" — David Ho-
warth, Nov. 89
"Latin-.4merica, a Plan for Revo-
lution in"— Peter F. Drucker, July
31
LAW, THE
"Yoiir Unknown Heirs," -Aug. 29
LETTERS July 4; .Aug. 6; Sept. 4;
Oct. 6; Nov. 4; Dec. 4
Levertov, Denise— The Thread,
Sept. 80
Levine, Milton I. — Sex: The Prob-
lem the Colleges Evade, Oct. 1 29
Levine, Seth — How to Play the Un-
employment-1 nsurancc Game,
Aug. 49
"Lewis, John L. and Cyrus Eaton,
Strange Romance Between" —
Nat Caldwell and Gene S. Graham,
Dec. 25
Lincoln Center for the Perform-
ing Arts, Oct. 82
Logan, Joshua — My Invasion of
Marseilles, July 14
Lowell, Robert — Free Version ol
Seven Poems by Boris Pasternak,
Sept. 44
Lynes, Russell — Culture-Struck Can-
ada, Aug. 16; Trade Catalogues,
Oct. 32 '
"Magazines, The New Campus" —
Richard Chase, Oct. 168
"Man Who Doubted, The" — Jack
Cope, Aug. 54
Maryland Restaurant Keepers,
Dec. 16
"Master Journalist of American
Fiction"— Louis Audiindoss, Nov.
124
"Matter of Motive, A" — John I).
Rosenberg, Aug. 71
Maxtone Graham, J. A. — (lar lor
Sale, Nov. 26
May, Edgar — A Way Out ol ihc Wel-
fare Mess. Oct. 37
McCarthy, Mary -"Realism" in the
American liieatre, July 45
McCorquodale, Marjorie K. — What
rhcv'll Die lor in Houston, Oct.
179 '
"McNamara and His Enemies" —
Joseph Kraft, Aug. 4 1
MEDICINE AND HEALTH
Dclcrgenls. Syntlictic, Nov. 94
"India Exijeriincnts with Stciili/a-
lion," Nov. 79
"Polio, Why \A'e Don't Wipe Out,"
Sept. 77
Menashe, Samuel —Voyage, Aug. 77
"Mirage of College Politics, The"
- Philip Riefit, Oct. 156
"Money Bait" — John Fischer, Sept.
10
"Monk Talk" — Robert Kotlowit/,
Sept. 21
"Moon, The Uses of the" — .Arthur
C. Clarke, Dec. 56
Morris, Willie — Houston's Super-
patriots, Oct. 48
MOVIES
"My Invasion of Marseilles, " July 14
"Mr. Future"— Leo Rosten, Sept. 48
MUSIC
"Jazz Notes," July 104; Aug. 95; Sept.
104; Oct. 118; Nov. 133; Dec. 112
"Jazz, 'The New Thing' in," Oct. 69
"Monk Talk," Sept. 21; Oct. 70
"Music in the Round, " July 102; .^ug.
94; Sept. 104; Oct. 116;' Nov. 128;
Dec. 109
"My Escape from the C.LA." —
Hughes Rudd, Oct. 43
"My Invasion of Marseilles" —
Joshua Logan, July 14
Nair, Kusum — Dike and the Village,
Sept. 68; Galbraith in India, Dec.
46
Nash, Ogden — Pavanne for a Dead
Doll, Dec. 33
"National Talent for Offending
People, Our"— D. H. Radler, Aug.
63
NEGRO
"Howard University, " Nov. 51
"Young Negro Rebels," Oct. 133
Nemerov, Howard— The Daily
Globe, Nov. 39
Neuberger, Sen. Maurine, Oct. 98
NEW BOOKS, THE
".'\rt Books" — Leo Steinberg, Dec. 87
"Democracy and Its Discontents " —
Irving Kristol, Sept. 96
"Fiction, Non-Fiction, Pseudo-Fic-
tion" — Paul Pickrel, Nov. 109
"History Today, Notes on the Writing
of" -Alfred Kazin, Oct. 104
"Poets of the Year, Some " — Stanley
Kimit/, Aug. 86
"Summer Fiction " — Paul Piekrel,
July 91
"New Campus Magazines"— Richard
Chase, Oct. 164
"New Irresponsibles, The" — Wil-
liam S. White, Nov. 98
" 'New I hing' in Jazz, The"— Mar-
tin Williams, Oct. 69
"New Vision in .Architecture, Fhe '
— Robin Boyd, July 73
"New York City and the Aris" Oct.
82
"New York Is Different" — Marion
K. Sanders, July 39
New York Politics, July 39
"Next Thirty Years in the Col-
leges, The" — Christopher Jencks,
Oct. 121
"Notes on Polish Student Life" —
Rcuel K. Wilson, Oct. 164
"NorES on the Writing of History
Today" — .Alfred Kazin, Oct. 104
Novak, Michael — God in the Col-
leges, Oct. 173
Novick, Julius— Jules Feiffer and the
Almost-in-Group, Sept. 58
"Offending People, Our National
Talent for" — D. H. Radler, .Aug.
63
"Old Junior's Progress" — William
S. White, July 88
"On Both Your Houses" — Sylvia
Wright, Sept. 33
"Oregon, The Lady from" — Wil-
liam S. White, Oct. 98
"Our National Talent for Of-
fending People" — D. H. Radler,
Aug. 63
Pasternak, Boris — Seven Poems,
Sept. 44
"Peace Corps' Secret Mission, The"
— Benjamin DeMott, Sept. 63
PEOPLE
Bartok, Bela, Composer, Oct. 116
Bowles, Chester, State Dept., Nov. 48
Caron, Leslie, .Actress, July 14
Coleman, Ornette, Jazz Player, Oct. 69
Delius, Frederick, Composer, Nov. 89
Dillon, Douglas, Secretary of Treas-
ury. .Sept. 25
Eaton, Cyrus, Utility Magnate, Dec.
25
Ernst, Morris, Lawyer, Dec. 19
Feiffer, Jules, Cartoonist, Sept. 58
Friedan, Betty, Educator, Dec. 15
Galbraith, J. Kenneth, .Ambassador to
India, Dec. 46
Hamilton, Fowler, Director Foreign
Aid, Nov. 12
Heller, Walter W., Council Economic
Advisors, Sept. 25
Hinds, William E., Benefactor, Tulv
62
Jaspan, Norman, Management Con-
sultant, Nov. 61
Kennedy, John F., President, Aug. 83;
Sept. 25; Dec. 63
Knopf, Alfred .\., Publisher, Dec. 16
Lasker, Mary, Dec. 16
Lawrence, Dorothy Bell, Politician,
Dec. 16
Lewis, John E., United Mine Workers,
Dec. 25
Love, Edmund C, Writer, Dec. 15
McNamara, Robert, Secretary of De-
fense, Aug. 41
Monk, Thelonious. Jazz Pianist, Sept.
21; Oct. 70
Neuberger. Maurine, Senator, Oct. 98
Potter, Justin, Coal Mine Owner,
Dec. 25
Romaine, Lawrence B., Bookseller,
Oct. 32
Rusk, David Dean, Secretary of State,
Nov. 45
Perrin, Noel — "You Tell Them,
Pop," Dec. 20
"Per.sonality Comes to the White
House, Cult of" — William G.
Carleton, Dec. 63
"Photography, On the Art of" —
Henri Cartier-Bresson, Nov. 73
"Physics, Uncanny World of
Plasma," Oct. 64
Pickrel, Paul — Summer Fiction, July
91; Fiction, Non-Fiction, Pseudo-
Fiction, Nov. 109
Pines, Maya — Sex: The Problem the
Colleges Evade, Oct. 129; Up to
Our Necks in Soft White Suds,
Nov. 94
"Plan for Revolution in Latin
.America, A" — Peter F. Drucker,
July 31
"Plasma Physics, Uncanny World
OF," Oct. 64
POETRY
"Burn It!" — Robert Graves. Dec. 49
"Chance What Comes" — Christopher
Hobson, Oct. 177
"Daily Globe, The" — Howard
Nemerov, Nov. 39
"Examination, The " — W. D. Snod-
grass, Oct. 154
"God Opens His Mail" —Larry Rubin,
July 61
"Her Husband" — Ted Hughes, Dec.
28
"Husking, The" — Dilys Laing, Sept.
67
"Our Friends the Russians" — Henri-
etta Fort Holland, Oct. 97
"Pavanne for a Dead Doll" — Ogden
Nash, Dec. 33
"Psychiatrist's Song " — Hilary Corke,
Aug. 58
"Rival" — Phyllis Rose, Nov. 50
Seven Poems of Boris Pasternak —
New Versions by Robert Lowell,
Sept. 44
"Thread, The" — Denise Lev ertov,
Sept. 80
"To a Friend Whose Work Has Come
to Triumph" — Anne Sexton, Nov.
93
"Variations on a Leica Form "— Ruth
Krauss, Oct. 88
"Vermont" — John Updike, July 67
"Voyage" — Samuel ^Ienashe, .Aug. 77
"Point of no Return?'" — John
Fischer, July 10
"Poets of the Year, Some"— Stanley
Kunitz, Aug. 86
"Polio, Why We Don't Wipe Out"
— Leonard Engel, Sept. 77
"Polish Student Life, Notes on,"
Oct. 164
Politics. See under Govenirneut.
Presidents, How to Use Our Ex-.
Dec. 84
"Private Eye to Industry, Norman
Jaspan"— Morton M. Hunt, Nov.
61
"Private vs. Public" — Henry E.
Wallich, Oct. 12
Probate Court, Aug. 29
"Proper Tool Will Do the Job,
The"— Norman Halliday, Oct. 80
PUBLIC & PERSONAL
William S. White
"Kennedy Back in the Senate, How to
Put," Dec. 84
"Lady from Oregon," Oct. 98
"New Irresponsibles," Nov. 98
"Old Junior's Progress," July 88
"Summertime, Good Old," Aug. S3
"Twelve at Table," Sept. 92
Public Opinion Poll, 1774. Dec. 20
Public vs. Private Spending, Oct. 12
"Quebec's Revolt Against the
Catholic Schools" — Miriam
Chapin, July 53
Radler, D. H. — Our National Talent
lor Offending People, Aug. 63
" 'Realism' in the American Thea-
tre"— Mary McCarthy, July 45
RELIGION
"God in the Colleges," Oct. 17.3
"How to Destrov the Churclies," Nov.
33
"Quebec's Revolt Against the C'atli-
olic Schools," July 53
Research, Historical, July 58
Richey, Elinor — What Chicago
Could Be Proud Of, Dec. 34
Rieff, Philip — The Mirage of Col-
lege Politics, Oct. 156
Right Wing Movement in Politics,
Nov. 98
"Robinson Crusoe in Florida"— Jan
de Hartog, Aug. 34
Rogin, Richard — In the Company of
Runners. Nov. 68
Rose, Phyllis - Rival, Nov. 50
Rosenberg, John D. — Matter of Mo-
tive, Aug. 71
Roses, Judy — The Common Predica-
ment, Oct. 145
Rosten, Leo — Mr. Future, Sept. 48
Rowen, Hobart — Kennedy's Econo-
mists, Sept. 25
Rubin, Larry — God Opens His Mail,
July 61
Rudd, Hughes — My Escape from the
C.I.A., Oct. 43
Salomon, Louis B. — The Game of
Words, Nov. 40
Sanders, Marion K. — New York Is
Different, July 39
Sa.n Francisccj Ball Park, Aug. 25
SCIENCE AND INVENTION
"Moon, Uses of the," Dec. 56
"Plasma Phvsics, Uncannv World of, "
Oct. 64
"Search for William E. Hinds,
The"— Walter Prescott Webb, July
62
"Sex: The Problem the Colleges
Evade" — Milton I. Levine and
Maya Pines, Oct. 129
Sexton, Anne— To a Friend Whose
Work Has Come to Triumph, Nov.
93
Snodgrass, W. D.— The Examination.
Oct. 154
"Society and Art" — Kenneth Clark,
Aug. 74
SOVIET RUSSIA
"Uses of the Moon," Dec. 56
"State Department, Comeback of
the"— Joseph Kraft, Nov. 43
Steamship Begonia Belle, Oct. 80
Stegner, Wallace — Corsica Out of
Season, Oct. 76
Steinberg, Leo— Art Books, 1960-61,
Dec. 87
"Sterilization, India Experiments
with" — Rowland Evans, Nov. 79
Stevenson, Adlai E.— America Under
Pressure, Aug. 21
Stock Market, July 21
"Strange Romance Between John
L. Lewis and Cyrus Eaton" — Nat
Caldwell and Gene S. Graham,
Dec. 25
"Summer Fiction" — Paul Pickrel,
July 91
"Summer Is Another Country" —
Christine Weston, July 27
Surrogate's Court, Aug. 29
"Swarthmore, Eager" — David Bor
off, Oct. 139
Taxpayer's Dilemma, Aug. 71
"Teach, How They M/g/;/"— Ben-
jamin DeMott, Oct. 153
"Teachers College: An Extinct
Volcano" — Miriam Borgenicht,
July 82
Temko, Allan — How Not to Build
a Ball Park, Aug. 25
Texas, Oct. 48, 179
THEATRE
Lincoln Center, New York, Oct. 82
" 'Realism' in the American Theatre,"
July 45
Thurber, James — The Futiue, If
Any, of Comedy, Dec. 40
"Twelve at the Table" — William
S. White, Sept. 92
"Uncanny World of Plasma Phys-
ics, The"— John L. Chapman, Oct.
64
UNEMPLOYMENT
"Kennedy's Economists," Sept. 25
"Strange Romance Between John L.
Lewis and Cyrus Eaton," Diec. 25
"Unemployment - Insurance Game,"
Aug. 49
"Unemployment-Insurance Game,
How TO Play the" — Seth Levine,
Aug. 49
United Mine Workers, Dec. 25
United States Peace Corps, Sept. 63
United States Under Pressure, .Aug.
21
"Up to Our Necks in Soft White
Suds" — Maya Pines, Nov. 94
Updike, John —Vermont, July 67
"Uses of the Moon, 'Fhe"- Arthur
C. Clarke, Dec. 56
"Violence in the City Streets" —
Jane Jacobs, Sept. 37
Viorst, Milton — Harvard Universitv,
Nov. 51
"Wall Street Amateurs, .\ Warn-
ing to" — Peter B. Bart, July 21
Wallich, Henry E.— "Private I's. Pul)-
lic," Oct. 12
Washington, D. C, Aug. 83; Sept.
92: Oct. 98; Nov. 98: Dec. 84
"Wasted Classroom, The"— Nathan
Glazer, Oct. 147
"Way Out of the Welfare Mess.
A" — Edgar May, Oct. 37
Webb, Walter Prescott — Search lor
William E. Hinds, July 62
"Welfare Mess, a Way Out of the"
— Edgar May, Oct. 37
Weston, Christine — Summer Is .An-
other Country, July 27
Westport, Connecticut, Dec. 15
"What Chicago Could Be Proud
of" — Elinor Richey, Dec. 34
"What They'll Die for in Hous-
ton" — Marjorie McCorquodale,
Oct. 179
White, William S. - (Public & Per-
'sonal) — Old Junior's Progress,
July 88; The Good Old Summer-
time, Aug. 83; Twelve at the
Table, Sept. 92; Lady from Ore-
gon, Oct. 98; The New Irresponsi-
bles, Nov. 98: How to Put Ken-
nedy Back in the Senate, Dec. 84
"Why We Don't Wipe Out Polio"
— Leonard Engel, Sept. 77
Williams, Martin — "The New
Thing" in Jazz, Oct. 69
Wilson, Reuel K. — Notes on Poiisli
Student Life, Oct. 164
"Words, The Game of"— Louis B.
Salomon, Nov. 40
Wright, Sylvia — On Botii Your
Houses, Sept. 33
WRITING AND PUBLISHING
Books, See also under
"Campus Magazines, The New," Oct.
168
"Footnote-and-Mouth Disease," July
58
"History Today, Writing of. " Oct.
104
"You Tell Them, Pop" -Noel Per-
rin, Dec. 20
"Young Negro Rebels, The"— Char-
lotte DeVree, Oct. 133
Younger Generation, The, July 88
"Your Unknown Heirs" — Murray
1 eigh Bloom, Aug. 29
YUGOSLAVIA
"Puzzled Report on Yugoslavia," July
iO
"Yugoslavia's Flirtation wiili Free
Fiuerprisc," Aug. 1 1
Yuletide Greeting. Rules for, Dec.
22
JULY 1961 SIXTY CENTS
ft
ers
magazine
\
TEACHERS COLLEGE:
EXTINCT VOLCANO?
iriam Borgenicht
A PLAN FOR REVOLUTION
IN LATIN AMERICA
Peter F. Drucker
'REALISM' IN THE
AMERICAN THEATRE
Mary McCarthy
A
WARNING
TO
WALL
STREET
AMATEURS
THE NEW VISION
N ARCHITECTURE
m
obin Boyd
Peter B. Bart
<3
i
iwo m-
w nisKies
» e «
The individual flavour of
each has stood the test of
time since 1627, both from
the House of Haig, oldest
scotch whisky distillers . . .
Quality rims m tlie laiiniy.
i
BOTTLED IN SCOTLAND
Uont De V^ifJUfJ . , . r/wA /o/ ll'iig C. I hue/ • bi ihuctj oLOIh WHISKY, otj.H fMUjOl • RENI^IELD IMPORTERS. LTD.. J. Y.
TEACHING BY TV
Bell System facilities meet a new need. Already a vital link in filling
educators' requirements within a locality, state or across the nation
An interesting current devel-
opment in education is the use of
television for instruction— both in
classrooms and in the home.
Evidence that a shortage of
qualified teachers is developing
coincides with the need for some
way to meet the awakened interest
in mathematics, physics, chem-
istry, and education in general—
from the elementary school to the
college level.
Many educators, in studying the
twin problems, are thinking more
and more about the possibilities
of Educational TV in their teach-
ing programs.
In transmitting TV lessons and
etures from place to place, vari-
means are available. Closed
•it Educational TV systems
'een schools may be required,
jonnection between broadcast-
stations in different cities. Or
ook-up between closed circuit
ems and one or more broad-
ing stations.
hatever distribution of TV is
^ed, in city, county, state, or
HELPING TO TEACH . . . HELPING TO LEARN. Classroom scene in Cortland, N. Y.
This is one of the schools now using Educational TV. More than one TV receiver
can be used where teachers wish to accommodate larger classes at one sitting.
across the country, the Bell Tele-
phone Companies are equipped to
provide it. They have the facilities
and years of know-how. And the
on-the-spot manpower to insure
efficient, dependable service.
For five years now, the local
Bell Telephone Company has pro-
vided the closed circuit ETV net-
work which successfully serves
thirty-six schools in Washington
County, Maryland.
In South Carolina 400 miles of
telephone company facilities now
connect almost thirty schools in
eleven cities. In New York State,
they serve a high school and seven
other schools in the Cortland area.
In San Jose, California, they
link four schools with the campus
of San Jose State College. And
in Anaheim, California, eighteen
schools are served by TV.
The Bell Telephone Companies
believe that their TV transmission
facilities and their many years of
experience can assist educators
who are exploring the potential
value of Educational Television.
They welcome opportunities to
work with those who wish to utilize
the potential of Educational TV.
BELL TELEPHONE SYSTEM
HARPER & BROTHERS
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Committee: CAss canfield
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MAGA
ZINI
PUBLISHED li\
HARPER & BROTHERS
VOL. 223, NO. 1334
JULY 1961
*21
ARTICLES
A Warning to Wall Street Amateurs, Peter B. Bart
31 A Plan for Revolution in Latin America, Peter F. Drucker
39 NeM' York Is Different, Marion K. Sanders
45 "Realism" in the American Theatre, Mary McCarthy
53 Quebec's Revolt Against the Catholic Schools,
Miriam CJiapin
58 "The Footnote-and-Mouth Disease," Helene Hanff
62 The Search for William E. Hinds, ]\'alter Prescott Webb
73 The New Vision in Architecture, Robin Boyd
82 Teachers College: An Extinct Volcano?
Miriam Borgenicht
FICTION
27 Summer Is Another Country, Christine Weston
VERSE
61 God Opens His Mail, Larry Rubin
67 Vermont, John Updike
DEPARTMENTS
4 Letters
10 The Editor's Easy Chair— point of no return?
joJin Fischer
14 After Hours, Joshua Logan
88 Public & Personal— OLD junior's progress,
Willia7n S. White
91 The New Books, Paul Pickrel
99 Books in Brief, Katherine Gauss Jackson
102 Music in the Round, Discus
104 Jazz Notes, Eric Larrabee
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LETTERS
Oppressed Angola
Vo THE Editors:
My attention has been called to "The
Lingdoni of Silence: The Truth about
ifrica's Most Oppressed Colony" [May]
ly "Anonymous." . . . Once the anonym-
ty has been established, on the excuse
hat the retired American businessman
lust be protected (protected from
.hat?), the poison flows freely. ... In
:ict— I am sorry to say— the article de-
:?rves as much credence as a jjoisonous
nonymous letter. But a few pertinent
oints must be stressed:
The intimate knowledge, the imjjlicit
ssociation, of .\nonymous with some
liady private dealings involving con-
ract laborers in Angola kiids one to
onclude that the .American businessman
1 question ("who has been working
nd traveling throughout Angola for
fteen years") only found his scruples
t a very late date, and then only for
lie purpose of peddling his tale to
Inrper's.
The Portuguese government is the
rst one to recognize that, in flagrant
iolation of the labor legislation in
))ce, there have been abuses l)y some
dministrative officials and fdzrtulciros
n labor contracts. So much so that, in
he last few years, a number of such offi-
ials have been dismissed and prose-
utcd by the courts. One is left to
,onder if the anonymous American busi-
lessman (obviously working for a profit
n .Angola) might have been a part of
uch shady dealings— and, if not. why
e did not report them to the govern-
lent authorities instead of selling his
indignation" now to an American mag-
zine. . . .
When a well-known publication such
s yours banks on its established reputa-
nn to promote and disseminate poison-
lus reporting of the type of "The King-
lorn of Silence," the question arises
whether the ultimate insult is against
'ortugal or against the dignity of .\mer-
can journalism. We leave the answer
o your conscience.
L. EsTEVES Fernandes
Ambassador of Portugal
Washington, D. C.
The Angola report had to he fjtih-
ished anonymously to protect the lives
»/ the author's informants. The author
s a conservative, ivealthy businessman,
vhom the Editors hiwe known for many
ears; they have complete confidence in
his judgment and responsibility. Events
in Angola since the article was published
have amply demonstrated its accuracy.
The Editors
I visited Angola in 1933. I was a col-
lege student earning money in the sum-
mer as an ordinary seaman on the Amer-
ican-West .African Line. To my shame, I
had made no attempt to bone up on the
social, economic, or political back-
grounds of the twenty-odd colonies I
visited. ... I knew practically nothing
about the Belgian and Portuguese ad-
ministrations and it was twenty more
years before I learned. . . .
The moral here is that even well-
traveled Americans skimming the tops
of backward countries either don't un-
derstand or choose to ignore the condi-
tions they see. Thousands of tourists,
for example, go to the West Indies
on vacation each year. They have a
fine time, visit the island in a taxi, and
go away feeling that this is an island
paradise. They don't know that . . .
the cheerful taxi-drivers have slept all
night in their cabs in order to get a
shot at one job from which they will
kick Ijack 40 per cent of their fee to
a concessionaire. . . .
I suggest that Harper's engage in a
conscious policy to make American tour-
ists more aware of their own social and
political significance to the people of
the countries they visit. I realize this
is a hideous idea because I can't think
of anything better calculated to spoil
the expensive fun for which the tourist
has saved his money. Ross McKee
New York, N. Y.
Too Much Progress?
To THE Editors:
Russell Lynes' article "Everything's
Up-to-date in Texas . . . but Me" [May]
is fine and it's a pity Texans are de-
termined to obliterate all the old court-
houses and mansions, everything old
except the Alamo, I suppose. But un-
fortunately Texas is not alone in bull-
dozing its past. . . . Even Lincoln's own
courthouse in Springfield, Illinois, is
threatened. Detroit's most historic build-
ing. Old City Hall, is to be torn down
this summer, over the protest of many,
to make room for an underground park-
ing garage. ... If Detroit has to tear
down Old City Hall in the name of
"progress," there is something wrong.
Our architectural past should be loved
and respected as part of our heritage.
John Neukki.d
East Lansing, Mich.
Bless you, Mr. Lynes, for those not-
so-kind words about Texas. For those
of us who feel ourselves impaled on a
Texas longhorn an article like yours
provides a cheery change of sustenance.
[But] I can't agree with you that one
day Texas is going to be sorry, because
I haven't found Texans capable of re-
morse except in connection with busi-
ness deals they missed out on. . . .
I found your views helpful to my own
analysis of what I had seen and heard
during a recent trip to Colorado and
W^yoming, where I had been alternately
awed by the majesty of the land and
appalled by the mediocrity of what man
is now putting up on it. Out there he
can still start from sagebrush if he
wants to, but he often erects a worse
monument to himself than did his un-
tutored ancestor, the pioneer. My grim-
mest shock came in Laramie, Wyoming,
a town I have known for years and
where I once lived a more satisfying life
than I have ever managed to do in
Texas. Laramie is now the most archi-
tecturally offensive town I know. The
new subdivisions cast of town are heart-
breaking examples of little talent and
no taste. . . . They have taken virgin
land and committed upon it almost
every possible architectural sin, often re-
fusifig to plant the trees that would in
time provide protective foliage for the
most glaring architectural defects. The
reason behind the no-landscaping policy
is that trees would block the view of the
mountains in the distance. A friend, sug-
gested that some of the owners of the
new houses had lived so long in base-
ments before they could build above
ground that they wanted to see all the
sky possible when they looked out their
new picture windows. . . .
Perhaps it isn't possible to travel the
U. S. without becoming saddened by
what is happening to a land of whose
beauty wc arc supposed to sing. I drove
along the Mississippi Gulf Coast in
March and stopwatched the unspoiled
stretches of it— five minutes here, two
minutes there. And in Mobile, my home
town, I could have hanged the city
fathers from the oaks over Government
Street. It would have been just retribu-
tion for the rape of a once fair rue.
Helen Yenne
Dallas, Tex.
Censored Minds
To the Editors:
In your excellent supplement, The
.Mood of the Russian People [May],
much is made of the fact that what in-
ternational news the ])eople receive is
carefully tailored to party purposes.
Granted. But how much better are
things here at home? .So far, only those
who know Latin America and Cuba
Which frame is stronger?
ours
others
Guardrail construction in the 1961 Ford Family of Fine Cars has
greater rigidity, offers the strength of strong side rails.
Ford Motor Company
builds better bodies
Millions of car frames are shaped like
an "X." Weak in the middle, they
lack the strength of strong side rails.
Guardrail frames in the Ford and
Mercury curve out. They are strong
in the middle. Guard rails also
protect passengers in the unitized
bodies used in Falcon, Thunderbird,
Comet and Lincoln Continental.
The underside of a car body has
exposed parts that are especially vul-
nerable now that chemical compounds
are used to keep roads clean and dry.
In the Ford Family of Fine Cars, the
most vulnerable body parts are gal-
vanized, zinc-coated to protect them
against rust and corrosion.
* * *
Doors in the Ford Family of Fine
Cars are stronger. They are reinforced
with steel beams. This means they are
more rigid and therefore close tighter
and quieter, reducing the likehhood
of developing squeaks and rattles.
* * *
If you compare door latches, you will
see that in our cars they are bigger
and heavier than door latches in other
cars. This makes for a tighter, stronger
grip which reduces the possibiHty of
doors springing open under impact.
Statistics show that passengers who
remain inside the car in an accident
are twice as safe.
* * *
One reason for the unusually quiet
ride in the Ford Family of Fine Cars
is the soundproofed floors. Where
other cars have only two layers of
sound insulation, our cars have three
layers of sound insulation. Each layer
eliminates a different range of sound
from rumbles to squeaks. As a result,
very little noise gets through to the
passenger compartment.
* * *
These are five of the many reasons we
think you will find (upon comparing
our cars with other cars) that Ford
Motor Company builds better bodies.
American Road, Dearborn, Michigan
FORD • FALCON -THUNDERBIRD • COMET • MERCURY • LINCOLN CONTINENTAL
"Few things," said Mark Twain,
with deadly accuracy, "are harder
to put up with than the annoyance
of a good example." In childhood,
one's parents always seem to be
pointing to someone else's be-
havior as superior. And later, other
people always seem to have cleaner
cars, shinier shoes, better gardens.
From the cradle to the grave, the
presence of the good example
seems inescapable.
And now here we are to call
your attention to another! If you
are not already an owner of com-
mon stocks, there are upwards of
15,000,000 Americans setting you
a good example . . . 15,000,000
owners of shares in American busi-
ness . . . 15,000,000 risk-takers who
hope to be profit-makers.
Of course, you're at liberty to
ignore these good examples if you
like. But if you do, you'll always
have the sneaking suspicion that
maybe they have the right idea —
that people who begin now to par-
ticipate in the growth of our econ-
omy will probably enjoy more of
the fruits of their investing than
the late starters or non-starters.
Probably the best way to tri-
umph over a good example is to
follow it. In other words, if you
can't lick 'em, jine 'em. We're
ready to help whenever you're
ready to start.
MERRILL LYNCH,
PIERCE,
FENNER & SMITH
INCORPORATED
Members New York Stock Exchange
70 PINE STREET, NEW YORK 5, N. Y.
LONDON 110 Fenchurch Street
PARIS 7 Rue de la Paix
142 offices in U, S., Canada and abroad
LETTERS
well are aware to what extent events in
Cuba are distorted, exaggerated, and
presented completely out of context; and
this by all of the mass media. . . . The
instinct for self-preservation is strong,
whether among Party members in
Russia or capitalists in the U.S. The
thinking of the masses is manipulated
by the power elite in either case.
R. M. Titus
Boston, Mass.
It was pleasing to read such a splen-
did piece of reporting as Priscilla John-
son's "Death of a Writer" [The Mood of
the Russian People. May]. . . .
I was all the more interested because
one of the men at the Pasternak funeral
— Kornei Chukovsky— I knew very well
during my six months' stay in Petrograd
in 1917-18, when I was a member of
the .\nglo-Russian Commission. At that
time he worked for better relations be-
tween Bolshevik Russia and the West.
I note that Miss Johnson calls him a
writer for children. Actually, in the days
I knew him, and before, he was one of
Russia's best literary critics; before the
first world war he wrote "From Chek-
iiov's Days to Ours." a very penetrating
piece of criticism of Russian literature
of the period. We may surmise that he
was driven into writing exclusively for
(liildrcn by the Soviet overlords who,
(hniiig the Trotskyist purge, at the in-
stigation of Communist hacks, consigned
my friend Prince D. S. Mirsky ("Damn
my title!" he once wrote me) to a Si-
berian concentration camp, where he
was driven mad and to death by his
tormentors. He was a great scholar, and
a great man. Many an hour my wife
and I spent in trying to dissuade him
from going back to Russia. But the man
was homesick, and Gorky promised him
inmiunity. Miss Johnson's story brought
it all back to me. It deserves many
readers.
John Colrnos
New York, N. Y.
Richard Pipes, in "The Public Mood,"
stated, "But neither is [the Russian]
the brainwashed automaton so often
pictured by the outside world."
I just received some letters from a
friend who recently arrived in Western
Europe after twelve years in Russia, the
first eight in prison. . . . My friend
writes that, except for a chance meeting
with a student she would never have
known there was any dissent or oppo-
sition left in Russia. She felt no per-
sonal resentment against her captors
in spite of privations, hardships, tlireats
while in prison.
She came to hate the Party only when,
after being released, she found a whole
people— her people— reduced to a state
( losely resembling .soullcssness by need
just short of hunger, by the dispropor-
tionate importance in their lives of each
small material concession granted by
their rulers, by the brainwashed grati-
tude they were taught to feel for any
improvement in their drab and needy
existences, and by the threats and
fears that disbarred any discussion what-
ever of officialdom or politics. When a
prison train arrived in her provincial
town one day and the prisoners were
transferred to trucks, nobody commented
on this unusual event or even w-on-
dercd aloud who the prisoners— obvi-
ously not common criminals— were. It
was only after leaving Russia that my
friend discovered that the prisoners had
been professors and students arrested
for printing and distributing suppressed
news of the Hungarian revolt. . . . Her
impression of the whole Communist sys-
tem is summed up in the expressions
"The Great Brainwash," "The Great
Farce."
Name Withheld
You have truly outdone yourselves
with this excellent Russian supplement.
Your reporters have put us in touch
with our opposite numbers in the
U.S.S.R. You have shown us people like
ourselves. . . . What we see in Russia
today is the same totalitarian state that
existed since the Tartar invasion; eco-
nomic systems may change, but the peo-
ple do not change, nor the types of
rulers. Khrushchev is merely Peter the
Great in an ill-fitting suit.
Lewis Taishoff
New York, N. Y.
Holy Madness
To THE Editors:
It is hardly likely that a more mean-
ingful statement than "Apocalypse"
[May] has appeared within memory on
the pages of an American magazine.
May a kinder fate attend the voice that
Professor Norman Brown has so cou-
rageously and eloquently raised than
that of one crying in the wilderness.
Noel P. Conlon
Chmn., English Dept.
^V^atkinson School
Hartford, Conn.
It seems to me that instead of aban-
doning reason and discipline to emotion
and supernatural frenzy, it is time that
man. the self-advertised finest handi-
work of God . . . began to use his gift
of reason and apply it to his prejudices,
his mythologies, and his dogmas.
Frankly, I think this world needs less
lioly madness— which all malefactors of
consequence use as their excuse for their
actions- and more genuine intelligent
application. For what Professor Brown
Seated, 1. to r.: Bennett Cerf, Faith Baldwin, Bergen Evans, Bruce Catton, Mignon G. Eberhart, John Caples, J. D. Ratcliflf
Standing: Mark Wiseman, Max Shulman, Rudolf Flesch, Red Smith, Rod Serling
Photo by Philippe Halsman
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NEXT 90 DAYS CAN
CHANGE YOUR LIFE
A Warning from
The Wall Street Journal
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LETTERS
advocates is a form of misanthropy
much more virulent than I, a long-time
practicing misanthrope, ever dared
dream of expounding.
Ward Moore
St. Louis, Mo.
Gallic Pitchman
To THE Editors:
Long John Nebel's article, "The Pitch-
man" [May], recalled to mind a thir-
teenth-century example of the same type.
Rutebeuf, French trouv^re, in his Le Diz
de I'Erberie recorded a dramatic mono-
logue in prose and verse supposedly
delivered by a quack doctor. It in-
cludes many of the same elements which
Nebel said were common to the pitch-
men of today. I have translated [some
of] it rather freely as follows:
"Good people, ... I belong to a
lady . . . who makes a kerchief of her
ears and whose eyebrows hang down as
chains of silver behind her shoulders;
and know that she is the wisest lady in
all the four quarters of the world. My
lady sends us out into many diverse
lands and diverse countries ... to kill
wild beasts and extract ointments from
them to give medicines to those who
are bodily ill. . . . [Take] these herbs.
. . . Steep them three days in good white
wine; if you have not white take red;
if you have no red take brown, and if
you have no brown take fair clear
water. . . . Take [them] the first thing
in the morning for thirteen mornings;
if you miss one take another, for there
is no mystery about them; and I tell
you by the passion of God that you will
be cured from all disorders and dis-
ease. . . ."
How the medicine man of the thir-
teenth century made his way to the
American frontier and then on to tele-
vision is difficult to trace, but I am sure
there is some connection. Things really
haven't changed very much.
Vern L. Bullough
San Fernando Valley State College
Northridge, Calif.
Reviewers Reviewed
To THE Editors:
I must say I have lost interest in your
book reviews since you changed your
format. I do not refer to Katherine
Gauss Jackson's "Books in Brief"; alas,
these well-written capsules are all I now
read. I refer to your major book-review
section.
When Paul Pickrel wrote the reviews,
I eagerly turned to the.se pages monthly.
Since your policy of rambling reviewers
commenced, however, this section lacks
cf)hesion, continuity, and the flavor a
single personality gave it. . . . Please re-
hire Paul or another full-time reviewer
like him.
Mary J. Hesi,
Cincinnati, O.
Mr. Pickrel again appears in his ens-
tomary place this month, and under ar-
rangements for an expanded coverage of
new books, he and Miss Elizabeth Hard-
xvick ivill alternate in the regular revieio
section for ten months of the year. In the
other two months it will be given over
to specialists for reviexv of the year's
outstanding work in poetry and arts. In
addition, special reports will appear
from time to time, outside the regular
review section, by experts in fields of
particular imf)ortance— science, econom-
ics, history, international affairs, and
others; each of these will undertake an
evaluation of the most significant ivork
in his field during the previous nine to
tiuelve months.
The Editors
One Lucky Oldster
To the Editors:
I hope that none of our members
read the cruel joke, "Exigencies of
Eighty" [by Henry H. Saylor, "After
Hours," May]. With incomes under
$2,000 a year, they are hardly in a posi-
tion to worry about custom tailors or
shirtmakers. We are earnestly working
toward the day when this will be a fit
subject for humor, but unfortunately,
the time is not yet.
M. J. Castleman
National Organizer
Amer. Federation of Senior Citizens
Chicago, 111.
Pro Grandpa
Martin Mayer's article "The Good
Slum Schools" [April] quoted R. D.
Morrow, superintendent of the Tucson
public schools, as referring to Pueblo
Hiffh School as "that damned school."
The comment on this point came to us
from his nine-year-old granddaughter.
The Editors
I'd like you to know my grandpa is
a fare man. And another thing he
doesn't use that language as you would
use! He isn't all the things you would
call him. And he doesn't use the nasty
words you made up. He never would
say things like that to anyone. Who
ever made everything up or if you made J
it up you or tiiey arn't very nice! I'm
not standing up for my grandpa but I
think you are rude and not nice.
Debbi Purvis
Tucson, Ariz.
ELflGfTI}^ Not Anivar Urbina, small citizen of Honduras. But the enemy is there all
around him —malnutrition, disease, the intense despair of poverty. Anivar and millions like
him face the Enemy from the day they are born to the quick twilight of their lives. They need
help now— above all, help to help themselves. They need food, tools, books, medicines and
technical know-how. By any standard they know, we have these things in abundance. Whether
it be in Honduras, Africa, India, or even in our own country, this abundance must be shared.
If we Americans help this child and others like him defeat the Enemy, he will never forget us;
if we ignore him, or try to bribe him, he will never forgive us. Which will it be?
RS. Employees and agents of Nationwide voluntarily have been
sponsoring special self-help programs in four Central American
countries in cooperation with CARE. More than $150,000 has
been raised in the last 18 months to provide the people of these
countries with the tools for better education, medical care,
agriculture, housing and other basic needs.
Nationwide Mutual Ins. Co., Nationwide Life Ins. Co., Nationwide Mutual Fire Ins. Co., home office: Columbus 16, 0.
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ATIOKWIDE
JOHN FISCHER
the editor^s
EASY CHAIR
Point of No Return?
... A Puzzled Report
from Yugoslavia
THIS spring a foundation asked me to go
to Yugoslavia to help pick about twenty
people— lawyers, writers, scholars, government of-
ficials—to study in the United States on fellow-
shijis. I jimiped at the chance, l^ecause I was
eager to learn something about a country that
had long [)u//led me, imder circumstances more
intimate than I could hoj:)e for as a tourist or
visiting reporter.
Three weeks and a hundred interviews later,
it still puzzles me. I came back feeling a little
like the Oklahoma farm boy who had just seen
his first giraffe: There ain't no such animal.
Never before have 1 encountered any place so
beset with contradictions and bewilderments. Al-
though I thought I had done my homework
pretty carefully, I began to rim into surprises the
minute I landed at Zagreb airport, and they kept
piling up day after day. It is hard to understand
how such a mixed-up society can work. Yet it
obviously does work— apparently a good deal bet-
ter than I had been led to expect. In the end I
began to wonder whether this, rather than either
America or Russia, might not prove to be the
Wave of the Future for many undeveloped coiui-
tries in Africa, Asia, and Latin America.
To this question, or hunch, I can't give a con-
fident answer, any more than I can explain the
paradoxes which kept leaping up at every street
corner. For example:
1. The Yugoslavs insist they are Communists
—indeed, the only genuine, pure-strain Com-
munists anywhere. Yet they distrust and dislike
the Russians more than anybody, except Ger-
mans. And creeping capitalism— complete with
private [jrrjfits, competition, free markets, and a
good deal of rugged individual enterprise— is eat-
ing deep into what was, only ten years ago, a
rigidly socialist (and almost moribund) economy.
2. The official faith is atheism. Nevertheless
the government subsidizes theological seminaries
for the training of Catholic, Greek Orthodox,
and Moslem clergymen. (Mohammedanism is
the fastest-growing religion, Avith evangelical
Protestant sects running a poor second. Nobody
could tell me why.) In Sarajevo alone, sixty-
seven mosques are open for business— each with
a minaret that looks imcannily like an Atlas
missile. And in Belgrade one of the tallest build-
ings now going up is a Seventh Day Adventist
church, financed largely by contributions from
America. Although the Vatican has been de-
nouncing the Yugoslav regime bitterly, ever since
the end of World War II, most of the nurses in
the biggest military hospital are nuns; and in
the streets of one town— Dubrovnik— I counted
nuns in the costumes of five different religious
orders, plus three varieties of monks. Easter Eve
services were well attended, by young people as
well as old.
3. The Iron Curtain hangs on only one side
of the country, and not the side you might think.
Wherever Yugoslavia touches one of the Soviet
satellites, the frontier is closely guarded and
traffic is sparse. (The border Avith Albania, that
forlorn little satellite of Red China, is practically
in a state of siege.) To the West, however, you
will see no barbed wire, no mine fields, no watch-
towers bristling with machine guns. Even the
customs service is a good deal more perfunctory
than it is in, say, New York. People wander back
and forth into Italy, Austria, and Greece about
as freely as Americans cross into Canada or
Mexico. Thousands of Yugoslavs spend their
vacations in Venice and Vienna, and— a more
telling fact— practically all of them return home.
Although East Germans are fleeing to the West
at the rate of about 200,000 a year, Yugoslav
political defectors are now almost unheard of.
J. Like all Communist countries, this one is
run by a small, jjrivileged, disciplined elite: The
Party. But the Parly members 1 met were
markedly different in personality from those I
have known in Russia, Germany, England, and
the United States. Not one had that harsh,
humorless, obsessive quality— the preoccupation
with power to the exclusion of everything else—
which the typical Communist wears like a kind
of psychic epaulette. These strike you, not as
steel cogs in a political api)aratus, but as warm-
blooded human beings; and some are truly
civilized, to a degree unknown in Russia and
rare among politicians anywhere.
For instance, when I was asked to dinner with
Mrs. Jose Vilfan— described as "a leading theo-
retician and Party organizer of Slovenia"— I ex-
pected a dowdy old battle-axe of the y\nna
Pauker type; she turned out to be one of the
11
most sophisticated and charming women I ever
met. The Foreign Minister, Koca Popovic, is a
surrealist poet, a philosopher, the son of a mil-
lionaire, a scintillating conversationalist— and,
incidentally, a brave and skillful leader of guer-
rilla troops. One fairly typical young bureaucrat,
whom I got to know quite well, has applied for
Party membership for the same reasons that make
a junior business executive in New York auto-
matically a Republican: it's the respectable thing
to do, and a help to his career. He is, however,
a good deal more knowledgeable about jazz
records, smart tailoring, and his Mercedes car
than about the works of Marx and Lenin; his
grandfather was a baron, and he proudly traces
his ancestry back to the twelfth century.
This is the dictatorship of the proletariat?
I N spite of such oddities— and the list could run
on for pages— it does seem possible to draw a few
tentative conclusions about this curious land.
For one thing, Yugoslavia apparently is now
reaching a Point of No Return. More precisely,
it is passing three of history's milestones simul-
taneously; in all likelihood it can never turn
back from any of them; and each of the three
promises to alter permanently the character of
its society.
Milestone One: To the astonishment of the
Yugoslavs themselves, they evidently are about to
jell into a real nation.
A generation ago, this looked most improbable.
Yugoslavia is, of course, a synthetic state— a
figment of Woodrow Wilson's imagination,
pieced together in 1918 out of the broken scraps
of the Turkish and Austro-Hungarian empires.
It always seemed on the verge of disintegration,
and when Hitler struck on April 6, 1941, it did
fall apart in a matter of hours. (Two years later
there were nine different "armies" in the coun-
try, some fighting the Nazis, some the Allies, but
mostly fighting each other in a civil war of
maniac complexity.)
A local proverb describes Yugoslavia as "a
land with five nationalities, four languages, three
religions, two alphabets, and one boss." The
main reason why Tito remains the boss is that he
is teaching a lot of people to feel— for the first
time— that they are Yugoslavs, instead of Serbs,
Croats, Bosnians, Macedonians, or Slovenes.
They still loathe each other, naturally. A
Croat, who inherited Western culture by way of
Austria, is likely to look with contempt on the
yokels of the eastern provinces, who stagnated
for five hundred years under Turkish rule. A
Montenegrin mountaineer— who may own noth-
ing but his dagger, an ancient rifle, and the rags
on his back— will scorn all strangers, including
the tribe in the next valley. (Chances are they
have been enjoying a blood feud for ten genera-
tions.) The Serbs remember indelibly that dur-
ing the war a bunch of Croat Quislings— the
Ustacha— tried to convert the Greek Orthodox
peasantry to Catholicism by force, butchering
some 120,000 men, women, and children in the
process. So too with the Shiptars, the Ruthenians,
and all the other racial and religious tag-ends of
Balkan history: each has a sound reason, stretch-
ing far into the blood-soaked past, for hating his
neighbors.
If Tito has managed to weld these unlikely
fragments into what now looks like a durable
state, he owes some thanks to a pair of borrowed
tools— one American, the other Russian.
From us he took the idea of federalism, a
radical notion in the Balkans. Before the war,
the kings of the Black George Dynasty had tried
to hold the country together by a tightly cen-
tralized government, run strictly by Serbs— with
the result that everybody else hated the Serbs
more than ever. Tito (a Croat) avoided this sort
of thing by giving each of the main nationali-
ties its own semi-autonomous People's Republic,
staffed with local talent. The upshot is that
State Rights is as popular a doctrine in Yugo-
slavia as it is in Texas.
From the Russians he learned to build a Party
which would serve as an instrument of personal
power, the most efficient and ruthless one seen
in these parts since the Sultan's Janissaries. To-
day it is a lot less heavy-handed than it used to
be, when Tito was exterminating his rivals and
fighting a battle for survival with Stalin. In some
ways, to be noted later, it behaves quite differ-
ently from any other Communist party in the
world.
Yet it remains, in Beatrice Webb's phrase, "the
steel framework of the society," the main force
making for unity and stability. It looks solid. Its
top people are bound together, not only by
loyalty to Tito, but also by a strong chain of
loyalty to each other, forged "in the woods" (as
they like to put it) during their three and a half
years of desperate guerrilla warfare. They really
are comrades, in a sense much deeper than the
Communist meaning of that term. So when Tito
dies— he is now sixty-nine— there is every expecta-
tion that the levers of power will pass smoothly
into the hands of his heir apparent, Edvard
Kardelj. Barring a major war, then, it seems
likely that the Yugoslav nation is finally here to
stay. We might as well get used to it, and its
peculiar ways.
Milestone Two: Apparently Yugoslavia is pass-
ing what Walt W. Rostow calls "the economic
take-off point." Its production is at last going
up at a faster rate than its population. Con-
sequently it can now build up its own capital
without further outside help— thus transforming
itself, under its own steam, from an underde-
veloped to a modern industrial society.
Indeed Yugoslavia's economy is now growing
12
THE EDITOR'S EASY CHAIR
faster than either America's or Rus-
sia's. After careful study of all the
figures (^vhich are far more detailed,
complete, and believable here than
in the Soviet countries), oiu" Embassy
economists have concluded that the
true rate of growth in Gross National
Product is about 10 per cent a year-
one of the highest in the workl.
In part, this is due to American
help— though you \\ould never guess
it from reading the Yugoslav neA\s-
papers. (The press is consistently
hostile.* It rareh mentions I'niied
States aid, to Yugoslavia or anvbody
else, nor does it like to admit that
our government can ever act with
decency or ^visdora. Nevertheless,
nearly all the Yugoslavs I met Avere
fully a^vare of American aid and
grateful for it. Moreover, they are
notably cordial to individual Ameri-
cans—more so, for example, than tlie
French or Austrians.)
* One explanation is sheer nation-
alism. These arc proud and touchy
people, who hate to concede that thcv
ever needed anybody's help. Another
is their need to prove, to themselves and
to the outside world, that thev are still
"good Communists." no matter what the
Kremlin says. So the further they mtne
awav from orthodox Marxism in their
domestic affairs, the louder thev are
likely to scream at the capitalist coim-
tries. They are almost comicallv afraid
of being called "lackeys of Wall Street."
Perhaps for the same reason. Jugo-
slavia nearly always sides with Russia
on international issues— even Avhen this
is against its own interest. For instance,
Yugoslavia, like all of the small coun-
tries, has a strong interest in preserving
the vigor and independence of the
United Nations. Yet it tamely echoes
Khrushchev's attacks on Hammarskjold
and the UN Secretariat.
A third explanation is plain fright.
The Yugoslavs know they have nf)thing
to fear from us; but the Russian army is
just over the border, and the example
of Hungary is still fresh. Naturally they
try hard never to speak a provocative
word to the Russians, nor a polite word
to Russia's enemies.
And beneath all this lie the inherent
contradictions in the Yugoslavs' position.
They are trying to be both neutralist and
Communist at the same time: to get all
the help they can from the West, to
placate the East, and also to set them-
sclvt s up as leaders of a bloc of uncom-
mitted nations in .Africa. Asia, and
eventually Latin America. Inevitably,
their behavior is often devious and
dfuible-faccd— in a word, Balkan.
It may be some small comfort to
note that here, at least, our foreign
economic policy has worked well-
however badh it may have gone in
Laos, the Middle East, or parts of
Latin America. The amount of aid
was relatively modest; much of it was
surplus food. It was used efficiently,
Avith negligible Avaste or graft. And
it achieved its objective: to help
Yugoslavia survive as an independent
nation. Simply by demonstrating
tiiat it is possible for a one-time
satellite to break aA\a\ from the
Soviet grasp, and then to defy all the
Kremlin's efforts to crush it by stib-
version and blockade, the Yugoslavs
jDcrlormed a major service for the
catise of freedom. At the same time
they did great damage to the myth of
monolithic, infallible Soviet leader-
ship. \\'hat better rettirn on oin in-
vestment could we ask?
But we don't need to invest any
more money here— or, at least, not
much. Because of its ctirrent drought,
Yugoslavia may need some of our
surplus Avheat this fall. Aside from
tliat, IioAvever, it is noAV quite capable
of plugging ahead on its oAvn. In-
deed, we might do Avell to hint, tact-
fiUIy but firmly, that the Ytigoslavs
should begin tcj contribute some-
thing to undeveloped countries else-
Avhere. If they aspire to lead these
countries— and that now seems to be
Tito's chief ambition— they had bet-
ter start paying the price of leader-
ship.
T H E J' can well afford it. The surge
of economic groAsth is obvious to any
traveler. (Soinetimes painfully so,
because new apartmenis, factories,
and office buildings are going up
everywhere, and the Yugoslav A\ork-
ing day starts at 7:00 a.m.; bull-
dozers and air hammers are sure to
wake you up at that hour, no matter
how late you went to bed.)
Housing is still short— after all, the
country lost a third of all its build-
ings during the war— but most other
goods are becoming fairly abundant.
The supermarkets, faithfully copied
from the .\merican inodel, are
stacked high with groceries, dry
gcjods, detergents, and such minor
luxuries as Israeli oranges and a soft
drink known as Jugocoke. I saw no
one who looked underfed; on the
contrary man) Yugoslaxs (who are
notoriously fond of starches and
fancy pastry) look as if they might
well spare a few pounds. In the main
cities, the women dress at least as
smartly as their counterparts in, say,
X'ienna or Munich, and at the Zagreb
opera one can see nearly as many fur
stoles as at the Met. (No minks, my
companion informed me, but to a
male eye they looked attractive
enough; so did their contents.)
The Yugoslavs are just as auto-
cra/y as Americans, and a surprising
nimiber liave somehow managed to
get hold of foreign cars. Alihougli
they need other things— including
roads— a lot more ingently, they are
doubling their own attto production
e\er\ year. In 1961 they expect to
turn out 32,000 Fiats and Citroens,
btiilt under licensing agreements
with the Italians and French.
A L L this does not mean that the
country is swimining in fat. The old
Turkish provinces are still, in fact,
about the most backward areas of
Europe. .\ Macedonian friend told
me that his home town, Skoplje, is
the biggest city in Europe without
a sewer system; and in Bosnia and
Montenegro it is an exceptional
family that can afford meat oftener
than once a week. Nevertheless
everybody I talked to (including the
anti-Communists and the grtmiblers)
agreed that things are a lot better
than they were five years ago, and
that the rate of gain in living stand-
ards is picking up fast.
For this prosperity, most of the
credit mtist go to the ordinary Yugo-
slav citizens— however useful our aid
may have been as a starter. They are
a remarkably hard-A\orking lot, and
they look it. In partictdar the men
and Avomen over forty, who carried
the greatest strain of the war and
reconstruction, often appear ten
years older than their true age. Per-
haps one of the biggest contributions
they can make to the Africans and
Latin .Americans is to persuade them
that there is a certain relationshij:)
between hard work and well-being—
an idea that we have not been able,
so far, to get across with notable
success.
Part of the credit, too, belongs to
the country's break with the old-
fashioned, Soviet-type economic the-
ory. Ordy after tlie Yugoslavs sliook
loose from Russia in 1918 did they
begin to exj)criment with their
THE EASY CHAIR
unique variety of a mixed economy-
combining some elements of social-
ism and some of individual enter-
prise in a highly flexible and
pragmatic mixture. They are experi-
menting still. Hardly a week goes by
without a change in the economic
ground rules— and all the recent
shifts have been in the direction of
further decentralization, more local
control, greater personal respon-
sibility.* So far the experiment has
paid off handsomely.
Milestone Three: This is the most
important of all, and the hardest to
be sure about. My guess might turn
out to be all wrong. But for what it
is worth, I am convinced that Tito
has now carried his people so far
away from the So\iet camp that he
could not turn back even if he
wanted to— which he plainly does
not.
Even after his death, ii seems to
me, there is almost no likelihood that
Yugoslavia will again become a Rus-
sian satellite.
Both its economic antl its political
systems are now Avell along in a proc-
ess of change which seems to be ir-
reversible. Neither is apt to become
identical with our kind of mixed
economy or our brand of two-party
democracy. Yet they are already
closer in many ways to American
specifications than to the Russian;
and it is quite possible that the
Yugoslav experience m:'y prove more
relevant to other small, undeveloped
countries with no tradition of self-
government than our own experience
—which is, after all, unique and per-
haps impossible to duplicate.
The evidence for these conclusions,
tentative as they are, will be exam-
ined in another report in this space
next month.
* One government official who is
pretty high up in the Party hierarchy
cold me, somewhat apprehensively, that
he thought they were moAing too far
and too fast. "We are going to have to
take a step backward before long." he
said, "or the system will get entirely
out of control." There is some evidence
that many of the older Communists, who
got their training in the Stalinist era,
have similar forebodings. Perhaps with
reason. I don't see how economic de-
centralization can go much lurthcr with-
out political decentralization av well—
and that would inevitably mean some
loosening of the Party's grip.
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AFTER HOURS
,*-^-^-7^/^<j,<:fT9^«S>fc<e»ia _^
MY INVASION OF MARSEILLES
by Joshua Logan
Joshua Lopan was co-author, direc-
tor, and producer of "South Pacific,"
for which he ivon the Pulitzer Prize
in 19S0. The plays and movies tvhich
he has written, produced, or directed
range from "On Borroived Time^' to
"Mister Roberts" and "Sayonara."
FOOLS rush in where angels
fear to tread, and American
movies are here to prove it.
Recently I led an American inva-
sion of Marseilles, the largest city of
Provence. It was my pleasant duty
to make the motion j^iclurc Faitny,
which is a combination of the three
stories Marcel Pagnol wrote in the
late 'twenties and early 'thirties
called Tlie Marseilles Trilogy, con-
sisting of the plays and movies,
Marius, Fanny, and Cesar. The
trilogy is a modern French classic
w'ixh a pecidiar flavor of its own.
Scenes from it arc reprinted in
French schoolbooks. Phonograph
records of the original sound track
spoken by the great French actor
Raimu, with Pierre Fresnay and
Charpin, are collectors' items. The
"game of cards" is remembered by
most Frenchmen as the funniest
scene in modern French literature.
Plaster statuettes of the game of
cards are sold as souvenirs all over
France.
It is said that Marcel Pagnol has
been collecting an enormous yearly
income from the replaying of the
three French films. Surely it was
because of this work that he ^vas
made a member of the Academie
Frangaise and allowed to wear its
embroidered uniform and sport its
bejeweled sword.
But to the French it is not Pagnol's
property; it belongs to them. All
France seemed to bristle when I ar-
rived with my associates to start
choosing locations in Marseilles. The
French newspapers dealt with the
subject in heavy sarcasm. "This
giant Texan"— I am rather large and
I was born in Texas— "dreams to
make an American picture out of
Fanny! It can't be done! It's ridicu-
lous, impossible, and typically
American to think that it can! And
even if it is good, we won't like it!"
The only one who dared to dis-
agree with the newspapers was M.
Pagnol himself, who had been my
friend for several years. I had di-
rected the American musical comedy
based on the trilogy in 1954.
"You will make a great picture,
Josuah," he said to me, pronouncing
my name very much as the French
spell it— with the "h" at the end.
"Of course, my esteemed country
men say that I have traded my soul
for money and that this project
proves I will do anything for that
miserable commodity, but I really
believe that the picture will be great.
It doesn't have to be played by
Raimu. Raimu was a monster."
(Monster, in modern French, is a
very handy expression meaning
either prodigy or devil.)
The fact that I had persuaded
France's two most famous exports,
Maurice Chevalier and Charles
Boyer, to j)lay the leading roles of
Panisse and Cesar, seemed to im-
press nobody in France. Pagnol says
that any Frenchman who makes a
success outside of France is without
honor to the French. "We are the
greatest snobs in the world," he says
with a combination of sneering dis-
taste and twinkling pride. "Don't
let them frighten you. Go right
ahead and make a great picture. I
will enjoy being famous in the out-
side world."
I rented an office in Paris in the
Studios de Boulogne and started
casting. I still had to find a young
French girl to play Fanny. Leslie
Caron had refused because she also
didn't believe any foreigner could
make an American version of these
French masterpieces.
This was not my first wrestling
match with the problems of Fanny.
When S. N. Behrman and I tried to
translate the three plays into ac-
ceptable English for the musical
comedy which we did together, with
Harold Rome's music and lyrics, at
first Pagnol's Marseilles phrases
seemed to defy translation. Even
though the trilogy is a sweetly sad
and rueful story, it is told in broad
comic terms. The Marseillais are
cavalier boasters; they talk and ges-
ture with bravura. Alphonse Daudet
in Tartarin de Tarascon blames it
on the sun. He says the sun is so
hot when it glares down on the Midi
that it acts as a magnifying glass
and tends to enlarge everything—
gestures, voices, even the content of
what people say. It's not lies the
peojile of Provence tell— merely
elephantine truths.
Behrman and I had to conjure up
English that would taste as salty as
Pagnol's French and yet dodge every
hint of English or American slang.I
Harold Rome had the same problem;
he could only write lyrics that used
a kind of classic, timeless English.
In our version we kept the char-
acter of Panisse alive until the cur
tain was coming down at the end ol
the play; in Pagnol's trilogy Panisse
died at the very beginning of the last
third of the story, leaving little sus-
pense. Pagnol, upon reading our
version of the play, wrote me a letter
saying, "At last you have found an
ending for me."
In preparing for the motion pic-
ture, Julius Epstein was engaged to
rewrite our version and make it into
a scenario. After many meetings
with him and executives of Warner
Brothers, we decided to do a non-
musical version of Fanny, using
Harold Rome's warm score to under-
line the moods of the picture but
avoiding all songs. It was mostly a
question of length. Songs take time,
and we wanted to tell more of Pag-
nol's story. Also, the French do not
like the American musical form in
pictures; neither do the Germans,
Italians, or Swiss. Without the
European market everyone felt it
would be too great a risk.
Julius Epstein watched the three
pictures again, using their sound
tracks and our libretto as his
main sources. He then proceeded to
add scenes that had had to be elimi-
nated from the musical version.
I passed out copies of the script to
all my French associates, who were
bilingual. There was imiformity in
the reaction to it. Each looked up
after having read the last lines of
the script and, with enormously
surprised eyes, said, "Why, it's
good!"
My two biggest problems at that
time were to get a girl to play Fanny,
and secure a square-rigged sailing
ship which represented the femme
fatale of the piece. This ship was to
lure the young boy, Marius, away
from Fanny's arms. The time for
shooting was getting closer. Michel
Romanoff, my assistant, took off in
an airplane to scout all the ports
in the Mediterranean for a square-
rigged ship. I flew to England to
try and persuade Leslie Caron to
change her mind. She finally capitu-
lated when she realized that Chajles
Boyer, whom she had long admired
and who was as French as she was,
had agreed to play the part of Cesar
which Raimu had created. It was
not because of me but the thought of
playing with Chevalier, Boyer, and
Horst Buchholz that finally captured
her.
Time was getting short. Dresses
and hair pieces were being made in
England for Leslie. The huge sets
were beginning to be constructed. A
crew of workmen took off by train
and car to start building the scaf-
folding on the Old Port in Mar-
seilles. The sets ^vere to represent the
weather-beaten buildings which had
been torn down during the war on
the right side of the port; and they
were to camouflage the new concrete
structures there. The left side of the
port, capped by Notre Dame de la
Garde, was still almost intact.
M Y little office at Boulogne was like
a small lifeboat. In every corner of
the room were French actors prac-
ticing English so that I could decide
it they could play in the picture and
still be understood.
A telephone call came from Palma
de Mallorca from Michel Romanoft.
He had found the perfect ship! She
was the Verona, an English barken-
tine built many years ago by Mr.
Singer, owner of the Singer Sewing
Machine Comjiany. Recently she
had been re-rigged with square fore-
sails to be eligible for the tall-ships
contest of last year's Olympic Games.
Her captain flew up to see me in
Paris. Yes, she could sail into and
out of the harbor in Marseilles, just
making it, and dangerous it would
be.
Salvatore Baccaloni, the Metropol-
itan buffo, arrived from America,
ready to jjlay the ferryboat captain.
Lionel Jeffries flew over from Eng-
land to discuss playing M. Brun, the
tall and lanky customs inspector.
Since M. Brun was supposed to be
from Lyons and a foreigner in
Marseilles, we felt we could take the
liberty of casting an Englishman in
that part.
Huge, wonderful Georgette Anys
walked into my room. She was ob-
viously Fanny's mother, Honorine
the fishwife. But she could scarcely
speak English. We decided to take
the chance; she went into intensive
diction lessons.
Suddenly, the cameraman we had
been counting on to photograph our
picture became unavailable. Zinn
Arthur, my public relations assistant,
suggested that we try for Jack
Cardiff, the master cameraman of the
early days of Technicolor. Cardiff
had just directed Sons and Lovers,
to be shown at the Cannes Festival.
He was now a full-fledged director,
and a distinguished one. Perhaps
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Bell's Special Reserve An excep-
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in everything but years.
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16
AFTER HOURS
he Avould consider the job of camera-
man a step doAvn. By some miracle
he did not then have another direc-
torial offer, and decided to come with
us. That was a good day.
A frantic telephone call came
from Marseilles. It was our art di-
rector, Rino Mondellini. Permission
to build our sets had been rescinded.
The people of Marseilles were up in
arms that their beautiful sidewalk
had been disfigured by several hun-
dred holes dug into it by pneumatic
chills. "Yes, we ga\c \ou permission,
but we no^\' take it back." Without
the jiolcs we could not put uj) the
supports; without the supports
the sets ^v'ould blow clown during the
mistral. ""With all those holes," said
Rino, "it's the biggest golf course in
the Av'orld!" "We laughed but we
didn't feel like laughing.
We all flew to Nice to see if we
could use the old harbor there and
make it look like Marseilles. Rut I
was stubborn; I had come this far
to photograph Afarseilles and I was
not going back \\ithout accomplish-
ing the mission.
Again to Marseilles, \\niat could
we do? If we ])ointed our camera in
the direc tiou to the left of the port,
it Avas all right. Once we swung to
the right, Marseilles looked like a
modern city of bland, scjuarc con-
crete. We decided to j^hotograph all
the scenes two ways. As the camera
looked left, we woidd be in Mar-
seilles. When we swung to the right,
we would move to a little toAvn
called Cassis where there were old
buildings along the right side of the
harbor— and then by cutting the two
angles together we could recreate the
old city. This was complicated,
difficult, but possible. Peace was
restored.
An army of technicians, actors and
their families arrived in Marseilles.
Half of us lived in Cassis, seventeen
miles away. Horst liuchholz arrived
from America where he had been
fdming The Magnificent Seven.
Meantime, everybcxly in Marseilles
began to harangue us about our cast-
ing. Taxi-drivers said, "How can
.Maurice Chevalier play Panisse? He's
a Parisian! Charles Boyer in the
great Raimu's part? Impossible! He
hasn't got the accent! .And what
about this German boy?"
.\ fishwife at the vast covered fish
market cjn the left bank of the old
harbor asked me, "Who is going to
play Fanny?" When I said Leslie
Caron, she turned and looked at all
of her associates as they exchanged
those French grimaces and shrugs
which can mean almost anything.
"Don't you like her? ' I ventured.
After a long pause, she spoke in
a very careful voice. "She's a good
dancer." That is all I could get.
But the waiter who served Mr.
Buchholz his orange juice the morn-
ing before we took off, looked him
over in such a critical way that my
heart almost stopped beating. Fi-
nally, he noddecl his head in ap-
j^roval. Yes, Horst Buchholz looked
like Marius. The waiter was willing
to let us proceed.
THE first shot I planned to get was
of Marius up in the shrouds of the
square-rigged ship, sailing past the
Chateau d'lf, looking back toward
Marseilles. For this we had brought
a helicopter and crew from England.
And then I learned an awful fact.
The wind that fills the sails of a
scjuare-rigged ship is the opposite
wind to the one that is needed to
photograph from a helicopter. The
helicopter had to force itself against
the wind in order to remain steady.
Also, if the wind was right for the
sails, the sim seemed in the Avrong
direction; if the sun was right, the
helicopter could not fly. Horst Buch-
hcjlz remained up in the rigging for
hours as the helicopter made pass
after pass, trying to photograph the
scene.
AVhen we came back that after-
noon, exhausted, discouraged, we
did not know that we had filmed
the most exciting shot in the picture.
We met a jubilant cre^v who had
been waiting for us. "Marseilles has
capitulated! The picture is going to
be a great success!" Michel Roman-
off and the production staff were
exultant. "We are going to get all
the co-operation we need now."
"What happened?" I said.
Michel replied, "The helicojiter!
The citizenry was very impressed
that you would go to such trouble
and expense as to actually bring a
helicopter to photograph their city.
Now they believe it actually has a
chance!"
Soon our problem was noi their
clisaj)proval but their exhausting
enthusiasm. Would we use their
restaurant for the actors to change
their clothes? Could five hundred
people come in and look at the set?
Teen-agers swarmed around Leslie
Caron and Horst Buchholz for auto-
grajjhs and conversation. Would we
come to dinner with the mayor?
Would we have lunch with the port
director? The assistant mayor? The
assistant port director? The head of
police?
Each evening we had to attend an
"aperitif" given by various members
of the crew, which meant drinking a
Cinzano or pastis at a nearby bar
before taking off for our hotels.
The sun shone brightly all day
long— the hot sun of the Midi. Al-
phonse Daudet was right. Adjectives
soon became superlatives. It was the
best cast, the greatest crew, and the
finest story ever told. We loved
Marseilles and Marseilles loved us.
The cast loved each other. We
patted each other on the back after
every scene. Kisses, hugs, hand-
shakes, aperitifs, bouillabaisse, ail-
loli, vin rose. Euphoria!
*A movie company is apt to become
slightly high under the worst condi-
tions. They are displaced persons
working in an unfamiliar place
against enormous odds of weather
and time. But put them under the
hot sun of the Midi and the cup of
truth runneth over.
AS I write this, it is six months
since we stopped shooting the pic-
ture. Throughout these months I
have been running the film in the
cutting-room, trying to get it into
the correct shape to be distributed
for an American audience. I am no
longer in the hot Midi sun. The
shadow of New York brings realism
back to me.
I am optimistic that Americans
and Britishers will like Fanny, but
1 worry about the French. Would
we like to see a French company
come to the banks of the Mississippi
and make a movie of Huckleberry
Finn? No matter how good it was,
no matter how faithful to Mark
Twain, could we accept a freckled-
faced boy in a tattered straw hat
smoking a corncob pipe who spoke
French? Or think of Jim! Aunt
Polly! The widow Douglas!
oil, no! Like Fanny, the idea's
ridiculous— and only a fool would
try it.
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the Squibb Division of Olin
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KCBS San Francisco alerted millions to the importance ot \oting, oliered iolution^ to ease the
cumbersome local registration system with its editorial titled, "Before It's Too Late."
KMOX St. Louis urged the adoption ot an
anti-fireworks law.
-WCBS Nov York urged the New York State
Legislature to support a bill raising the mini-
mum age for purchase of liquor from 18 to 21.
WBBM Chicago backed the Police Superin-
tendent's stand that his department's most vital
need was more equipment, not more manpower.
JCNX Los Angeles criticized the City Council
and the Park and Recreation Commission for
the 3V2 year delay in building the zoo.
WCAL Philadelphia demanded a thorough in-
vestigation of voting frauds.
VVEEI Boston criticized the mob that attacked George Lincoln Rockwell, self-proclaimed fuehrer
of the American Nazi Party. The station pointed out that freedom of speech applies to everyone.
These editorials are not from seven of
Annerica's most important newspapers.
They represent the voices of the seven
radio stations across America that share
the belief that radio has something to say
as well as something to ploy.
This, in fact, sets the CBS Owned Radio
Stations opart. They take an active posi-
tion on important issues within their com-
munities. They take o stand. They not only
encourage rebuttals. They seek ihem out.
Last year 164 special editorials were
broadcast by these seven strategically
placed stations. This year editorials are
continuing at on even greater rate. The
result — within earshot of millions of listen-
ers—is idea radio. Broadcasting put to
positive, stimulating use.
Recently Stotion KCBS in Son Francisco
-/on the Notional hHeadliners Club Award
I jr the Best Radio Editorials in the nation,
r<. •/•/''n'^ ir. New York received the Ohio
State University Regional Award for
"Opinion On The Air," its series of ■v^ll-
documented editorials.
Wherever there is a CBS Owned Radio
Station the listener knows he con hear this
kind of informed stand on what's happen-
ing near his doorstep. Wherever there is
this kind of idea radio the sponsor knows
he con reach people who listen closelv ^'~'"'
respond actively.
THE CBS OWNED RADIO STATIONS
Represented by CBS Radio Spot Sales
Harper
magaJIzi ne
A WARNING TO
WALL STREET
AMATEURS
PETER B. BART
Dreams of the affluent society and the space age
— plus an old-fashioned urge to gamble — have
brought hundreds of thousands of greenhorns into
the stock market. . . . Many of them are behaving
so foolishly that they scare even the old pros.
ON E ot the more popular stories making
the rounds of Wall Street saloons this
spring concerned the ielloAv ^vho called his
broker and asked him to buy lour himdred
shares of a company called Ultrasonics Precision.
When the broker asked whether his customer
knew anything special about the company the
customer replied: "My barber told me to buy
it— he's given me some good tips lately."
The transaction was completed, but two weeks
later, after the next haircut, the customer called
again. "I was all wrong," he said, "^^y barber
recommended Ultrasonics Industries, not LHtra-
sonics Precision. Sell Ultrasonics Precision and
buy me the right one. " The broker did as di-
rected only to find that his customer had cleared
an $800 profit on the "wrong" stock.
The story, and its several variations, may be
apocryphal, but, like most such tales, it tells
something of the tenor of the times. And the
tenor of the times on "Wall Street these days
is deeply disturbing to many thoughtful finan-
cial men because there are too many barbers
and friends of barbers acting exactly like the
people in the story.
In short, \Vall Street is worried about the
growing role of the small speculator in today's
market. It was this sort of \\'orry that led Keith
Funston, the tall and august President of the
New York Stock Exchange, to flash a warning
signal early this spring. Addressing the jjublic
in the manner of an impatient parent \\ho had
just caught his child ^vith a hand in the cooky
jar, Mr. Piuiston intoned: "There is disquiet-
ing evidence that some j^eople have not yet dis-
covered tliat it is impossible to get something
for nothing." ,A month later he warned: "The
behavior of the jjublic makes a mockery of the
word 'investing'."
What triggered Mr. Funston's warnings was the
sudden specidative lever that swept the market
in March, April, and May. Volume soared to
22
WARNING TO WALL STREET AMATEURS
record levels, the Dow- Jones industrial average
hit a new high, standing-room-only crowds sud-
denly materialized at many lirokerage-house
board rooms, and, in the words of one broker,
"people raced around buying stock as if they
feared there wouldn't be any left the next day."
The sudden mass enthusiasm for the stock
market was attributed to several factors— the ap-
parent end of the recession, the change of Ad-
ministration in Washington, the prospect of
further inflation. But it also reminded Wall
Street of an important change that has taken
place in the securities business in recent years—
namely, that the stock market has become a mass
market. Although Wall Street has worked hard
to bring about this change, it knows remarkably
little about the new "monster" that it has created.
How will the mass market behave in periods
when significant gains in the economy appear in
the offing? How will it respond to sudden down-
turns and disappointments? M^ill it be able
to contain its speculative surges? No one pre-
tends to know the answers to these questions,
but many analysts are extremely apprehensive
about what the answers may turn out to be.
"We may be about to witness a phenomenon
once deemed inconceivable— a wave of mass spec-
idation that would have been impossible in the
1920s," said Bradbury K. Thurlow, vice presi-
dent and treasurer of the Wall Street firm of
Winslow, Cohu and Stetson, Inc. "The 1929
boom may actually have been only a trial run
for the one now apparently getting luider way."
Mr. Thurlow pointed out that in 1929 only
about 1,500,000 people owned common stocks
while today the number of share-owners is esti-
mated at fifteen million. The big brokerage
houses, noting that the number of stockholders
has doubled in less than ten years and that new
accounts are opening at a record clip, hope for
a share-owning population of perhaps thirty
million in another five years or so.
The problem with a speculative boom in this
sort of mass market, say Mr. Thurlow and many
other analysts, is that it would inevitably lead
to a spectacular bust— a bust which could destroy
millions of investors as well as speculators and
As a financial reporter on the "Neiv York
Times," Peter B. Bart has been watching the stock
market become a supermarket. He is a Swarthmore
graduate who studied also at the London School
of Economics and has done financial and general
reporting for the "Wall Street Journal" and Chicago
"Sun-Times."
give the market a "bad name" for at least an-
other generation.
This is a disquieting prospect for Wall Street
leaders who have struggled long and hard to
enhance the stock market's "corporate image."
Thanks to their efforts and expenditures, the
symbolism of the bucket shop and the back-
room manijiulator has been banished, and a
new aura of gray-flannel respectability now sur-
rounds the stock market. It is this structure of
confidence and respectability which the outbreak
of mass speculation threatens, and that is why
Wall Street is uneasy.
NO MATTER WHAT,
IF it's new
ALTHOUGH the speculative fever has
affected all facets of the securities busi-
ness, it has focused particularly on small,
relatively unknown companies- especially com-
panies selling stock to the public for the first
time. So strong has been the swing to the little
companies that some analysts have labeled it
"the revolt against the blue chips."
The "new issues" were a fit target for specu-
lation. For one thirtg, companies selling stock
to the public for the first time generally issue
a small amount of shares. And because there are
so few shares in the hands of the public the
price can be driven up even by a minor surge of
interest. Moreover, the new shares usually are
issued at prices designed to attract investor in-
terest. In a bull market, these often are bargain
prices indeed.
Finally, many of the new companies "going
public" are in space-age industries and bear such
melodramatic names as Datamation, Electro-
Sonic Laboratories, Electronics Missiles Com-
pany. Corporate names like these have pull in
the market. (Agricultural Equipment Corpora-
tion, a manufacturer of weed burners, re-
cently changed its name to Thermodynamics,
Inc., prior to issuing stock.)
As a result of these various factors, brokers
have been besieged by customers demanding
shares in the new issues, and the prices have
taken off like rockets. Companies like Packard
Instrument, Renwell Electronics, and Pneumo-
dynamics have doubled within days of the stock
issue. Stock in Alberto-Culver, a small producer
of hair tonic and shampoo, was issued at $10
and soared almost immediately to .1525 a share.
Shares in one company bearing the non-space-age
name of Mother's Cookie Company leaped from
$15 to .'i;25 within forty-eight hours. Cove Vita-
BY PETER B. BART
23
mill and Pharmaceutical went from $3 to $60 in
three months.
"My customers don't even want to kno^v what
a company manufactures or what its earnings
prospects are," said one young Wall Street broker.
"If it's a new issue they want it, Avhatcver the
case."
Some Wall Street firms have tried to cool
the ardor of their customers. White, Weld and
Company refused to open accounts for customers
who were interested solely in new issues. Merrill
Lynch, Pierce, Fenner and Smith made a sur-
vey of forty-six companies that had issued stock
during the 1945-46 new-issues boom, and fotuid
that only two of the companies now are selling
above the offering price.
These efforts in general, however, were with-
out much effect. "In this kind of situation a
broker is like a prostitute," reflected a high
official of one old-line Wall Street firm. "If we
turn away any business we know darn well they'll
just take it elsewhere."
The basic problem with a new-issues boom,
however, is that it tends to be self-propelling.
Public enthusiasm for the newly issued securities
encourages more companies to bring out stock-
thus there are more new secinitics registration
statements before the Securities and Exchange
Commission at this time than ever before in that
agency's history. Mean^vhilc. prestige luider-
writers who formerly snubbed smaller issues have
suddenly developed a fondness for them because
of tlie profits involved. And the small specida-
tor is encouraged all the more to dive into the
new-issues market because he sees such distin-
guished firms backing the shares.
CULT OF GROWTH STOCKS
ANOTHER reason it is difficult to bring
order to the new-issues boom is that most
new offerings first appear on the volatile over-
the-counter market, where they are harder to
control than on the exchanges. In fact, it is
here that the most frenzied speculation has taken
place not only in new issues but in established
stocks as well.
The over-the-counter market is something of
a misnomer, since there is no counter and no
clearly defined market— that is to say, no central
place where the shares are auctioned off as in the
case of the New York Stock Exchange or the
American Stock Exchange. The so-called "mar-
ket" consists of some five thousand dealers in
offices scattered all over the country, each of
whom has a battery of phones and a nervous
stomach. Nonetheless, it is the nation's biggest
mechanism lor trading securities, with five times
as many stocks regularly traded as on the "Big
Board" of the New York Stock Exchange. It has
long served as a proving ground for small com-
panies as well as a pleasant retreat for established
concerns which shy from the jjublicity surround-
ing the major exchanges or don't want to dis-
close data required to attain a listing on the
exchanges.
However, as a resiili ol the lad lor new issues
and the general surge of speculation in relatively
unknown companies, the apparatus for over-the-
coimter trading has been strained to the break-
ing point. Dealers in over-the-counter secvnities
use words like "fantastic" and "unbelievable"
to describe their volume of business, and many
say that they made more money in commissions
during the first quarter of 1961 than during
all of" 1960.
If many of the old timers on the over-the-
counter market have been awed by the tre-
mendous volume, they've been equally aghast
at the way in which the jjublic has cast aside
the traditional yardsticks used in evaluating
stocks. These yardsticks involved such consid-
erations as the dividend yield (5 per cent was
considered reasonable) or the "price-earnings
ratio"— the relationshij) between a company's
earnings and the price of the stock. (If a stock
sold at more than ten or tAvelve times the com-
pany's earnings, many brokers used to consider
it overpriced.) In today's market, A\iih attention
focused on so-called groAvth stocks, j)eople clamor
to buy stocks which have no yields and sell at
fifty or one hundred times earnings. Thus in
May IBM was selling at 75 times earnings. Po-
laroid at 95 times earnings, and Fairdiild Cam-
era at 60 times earnings.
"It's possible to argue that the IBMs and
Polaroids are well worth their current j)rice,"
notes Stephen H. Weiss of A. G. Becker and
Company. "But in a market like this one the
good growth stocks tend to cast their aura of
glamour around do/ens of small, unseasoned
companies operating in rotighly parallel fields.
The result is astronomical and imjustified prices
for imknown, unstable stocks."
The cult of the growth stock traces its origins
to several sources. For one thing, it's in keeping
with the speculative spirit of the times. For an-
other, most people in the ui)per tax brackets
prefer to maneuver among the esoteric, low-
yield growth stocks and pay a capital-gains
tax limited to 25 per cent rather than pay higher
taxes on dividend income. Finally, investors
24
\V A R M N G TO \\ A L L STREET A M A T E L R S
figure thai the sjiowth stocks hold mit the bright-
est prospects tor short-term appreciation rather
than the once-popular but shiggishly perform-
ing "bhie chips."
The growth-minded nnxul ot the current mar-
ket was effectively, it unintentionalh parodied
not long ago bv comedians Lou Holt/ and jack
Paar when Mr. Holt/ confided to Mr. Paar on a
national television show that he tmned a stock
listed on the American Exchange \\hich would
move from $10 to SI. 000 in ten years. The follow-
ing dav was a memorable one for the Exchanges
510 stocks. The favorite with the television-
minded specidators was a company named MPO
\ideoironics. and trading in that stock couldn't
be opened until a few miniues before the close
because of a rush of buv orders. .\las. the com-
panv proved to be a double disappointment.
To begin with, it wasn't the stock Mr. Holtz
had in mind: and its principal product turned
out to be television commercials.
As one Wall Street analvst commented on the
whole episode. "Never have so many people in-
vested so much money so stupidly. '
TIGHTENING THE SCREWS
TH E Jack Paar-Lou Holt/ incident was
liardlv the onlv case in which stocks sud-
denlv took oft under mvsterious circumstances.
In this case, of course, the luiderlving cause
seemed to be innocent enough. In a number of
other cases, however, the suspicion of manipula-
tion hung over the market.
There is no wav of knowing how much old-
fashioned price rigging takes place in Wall Street
todav. i.e.. the creation of an artificial demand
to buv or sell a stock bv influential insiders.
Some financial men scoff at the idea; others
insist, however, that price rigging persists to an
alarmin? extent and is a verv real threat to
public confidence.
The fKwition of the latter group Avould appear
to gain credence from several recent actions of
the Securities and Exchange Commission ag;iinst
prominent \Vall Street finns. The most speciac-
idar case involved charges of massive rigging
and illegal distribution of SIO million worth of
seciuities. In Mav. these charges rcNulted in the
expulsion of Gerard A. Re and his son. Gerard
F. Re. from the .\merican Stock Exchange. Re.
Re and Sag-arese at one time A\as one of the
largest specialist finns on the American Ex-
change.
The Re case aroused a great deal of comment
for several reasons. For one thing, it was the
first lime since the establishment of the SEC
in \9M that the agencv had taken action against
a specialist. The specialists role is a pivotal one
on the exchanges, since he is charged with the
responsibility of maintaining an orderly auction
market in those securities assigned to him.
Moreover, one of the nianv prominent men
who had been victimized by some of the Re deals
was Edward T. McCormick. president of the
American Stock Exchange.
As part of its crackdown on market manipula-
tion, the SEC announced that it woidd inidertake
an investigation of the American Stock Exchange.
Meanwhile, it brought disciplinarx action
against Bruns, Xordeman and Company, for
manipidating the price of shares in Gob Shops
of America, a small chain of Rhode Island
stores, and against an luiderwriter. R. A. Hol-
man and Companv. on charges of holding back
shares in a stock sale in order to create an arti-
ficial demand. The SEC also warned under-
writers against so-called "tie-in sales'" in which
newly issued securities are sold on condition that
the buyer later will purchase an additional
amount on the open market.
While the SEC was cracking down on some
of the more blatant market malpractices, the
exchanges also were tightening the screws in
other areas. The New York Stock Exchange, for
example, recentlv stiftened its requirements for
getting a stock listed. The New York and Amer-
ican Exchanges have stepped up their so-called
"stock watching " activities, in which staff mem-
bers quietiv investigate situations where prices
suddenlv spint or volume soars for no appar-
ent reason. The Xew York Exchange also re-
minded companies on the Big Board of their
(Obligation to disclose immediatelv anv informa-
tion that might have an effect on the prices of
listed securities.
The Big Board's warning was precipitated by
a series of incidents in which important com-
panies were especially obvious in "leaking" in-
formation in advance of official annoiuicements.
One big electronics companv. for example, took
groups of reporters and security analvsts out to
see an imp<irtant new computer several days
before the siorv was to be released for publica-
tion. The visits generated sufficient riunors to
push up the slock by five points during the two
days immediatelv preceding the announcement.
It is this sort of practice which has given new
I urrencv to the old \\'all Street sa\ing: "Buy on
the rumor and sell on the news." The reason-
ing behinil it is that when importaiu news
is brewing about a compain— a merger, stock
i
BY PETER E. BART
split, or important new product— the stock ^vill
rise until the story hits the papers and then will
decline. The effect is to put the squeeze on the
gullible investor ^vho is impressed by Avhat he
reads in the paper— and to increase the flocking
of lambs into ^Vall Street for shearing.
Burton Crane, the stock-market columnist of
the New York Times, traced the market perform-
ances of t^venty-eight companies ^vhich had an-
nounced stock splits and loiuid that nearly all
had climbed in the ^veeks prior to the announce-
ment. However, far more stocks fell than rose
dtning the period immediately following release
of the news. Thus some cynical members of the
financial press refer to many of their stories as
"near-news" rather than news. "Near-ne^vs" is
information that has been methodically leaked
to all persons w\\o might possibly have interest
in the story and ^vho might be in a position to
profit from advance knowledge.
The expanded role of "near-news" has coin-
cided with the grooving importance of special
stock deals in that part of the public relations
industry which specializes in publicizing and dis-
tributing financial and business news. More and
more companies now include some sort of stock
arrangement as part of the total remuneration
paid to public relations agencies. For instance,
many corporations grant stock options to the
PR agencies which allow them to buy stocks
at their original low prices well after they have
increased in value. The effect has been to focus
the attention of the PR people on the price of the
stock rather than on getting out the news, so that
some agencies have become "stock touts" rather
than publicists.
These jjractices raise deeply disturbing ques-
tions: Does the small investor or even the small
speculator get a fair break in the market? Does
he have proper access to corporate news? Is he
victimized by market riggers? When speaking
for public consumption on these questions,
nearly all \Vall Streeters take the position that
(a) the market is basically honest, (b) thev are
nonetheless concerned lest arrant speculation or
a few -well-publicized cases of price riggint; may
seriously shake pidilic confidence in the market.
"You can never do a^xay ^vith the 'insiders,'
and you can never get arotmd the fact that some
people inevitably are going to kno^v things and
profit from this knowledge ■while others w\\\ re-
main in the dark," said one experienced Wall
Street analyst. "Thus people are certainly not
competing on eqtial terms in the stock market.
But, nonetheless, ^vithin this framcAvork we must
strive to make things as equitable as possible.
In the stock market everyone should be equal,
even though some people inevitably will be a
little more ecjual than others."
It Avas the great misforttuie of Dr. Irving
Fisher, the distingtiished economist at Yale from
1893 to 1935, to have achieved immortality ^vith
a misjudgment. Said Dr. Fisher in 1929: "Stock
prices haAC reached what looks like a perma-
nently high plateau."
Not many people talk about "permanently
high plateaus" any more. Many Wall Street an-
alysts currently seem to subscribe to an economic
adaptation of Newton's law that every action
has an equal and opposite reaction. They the-
orize that every boom runs to excess and inev-
itably generates some sort of "correction" or
m
"The flocking of lambs into Wall Street for shearing.'
26
WARNING TO WALL STREET AMATEURS
downturn in the market. This principle places
the analysts in something of an ambivalent posi-
tion, to be sure, since, though Wall Street thrives
on booms, it also knows that the greater the
boom, the greater may be the correction.
POISED TO RUN AWAY
AT PRESENT, there are fears that Wall
Street may be poised for a speculative
boom of run-away proportions and that the
"shakeout" or "correction" which will follow
may do a great deal of damage to the investing
public.
There is much disagreement over what may
trigger the "shakeout." It could be an unexpected
diplomatic crisis in Berlin, Southeast Asia, or
some other trouble spot; or a sudden "flood
tide of corporate larceny"— the ruthless milking
of corporate assets by high executives— which,
according to J. K. Galbraith, was a factor in
the 1929 crash; or a loss of public confidence
due to disclosures of serious manipulation, or
any number of other factors. If conditions were
sufficiently sensitive, it wouldn't require too
catastrophic an incident to set ofi: a shakeout
since the movement of relatively few shares es-
tablishes the prices for all shares of stock. (Only
a small percentage of the total amount of stock
in existence is actively traded in the market.)
If and when a break does occur, the market
will be proj^elled downward by a number of
forces. For instance, insiders in companies whose
stock has only recently been issued to the public
—and has enjoyed great increase in value- may
well try to unload a good part of their holdings.
And other "paper millionaires" will no doubt
join them.
"Whatever the causes, however, surprisingly few
Wall Streeters are prepared to suggest steps to
ward off a "bust." In a society of mass affluence,
they reason, there's little that can be done to
prevent people from gambling away their money.
Lifting margins or curbing the activities of non-
regulated lenders would be of little use, they
argue, because most of the speculation in today's
market takes place on a cash basis. "If the
public wants to shoot craps, there's nothing we
ran do about it," says one high SEC official.
There are, of course, several long-range meas-
ures that could be taken and that have the sup-
port of Wall Street: chiefly, increased efforts to
educate the public in the economics of the stock
market and in economics in general. Secondly,
just as investors should be better informed, so
should their brokers. The big Wall Street houses
have done much in recent years to improve the
caliber of their staffs. But there are still too many
ill-prepared, ill-educated brokers in the securities
business, who mislead their customers— if not
cheat them.
These are problems that must be tackled over
the long term. On the more immediate level,
some Wall Streeters and independent observers
favor several short-term devices to curb the ex-
cesses in the market:
1. A crackdown on the advertising placed by
some investment advisory services which make
get-rich-quick promises.
2. A further increase in the staffs maintained
by the SEC and the major exchanges to watch
for price rigging and other irregularities.
3. Continued warnings to the public by the
exchanges themselves— and even by officials in
Washington— against the dangers of excessive
speculation. (Mr. Funston issued another such
warning in mid-May.)
4. A greater effort at self-policing by the finan-
cial community in general. For instance, prestige
firms should refuse to underwrite stock offerings
for undercapitalized and poorly managed en-
terprises.
5. A tightening of SEC rules governing new
issues, which would require fuller disclosure
of financial information by companies involved,
and the certification of the accuracy of such
information for small as well as large stock
issues. (At present, no certification by account-
ants is required for stock offerings of $300,000
or less.)
6. New legislation giving the SEC stricter
controls over securities trading and over new is-
sues, enabling it, for example, to bar doubtful
companies from selling stocks to the public.
These reforms— not to mention more radical
proposals— are likely to run up against the laissez-
faire instincts of the financial community. How-
ever, there are now increased stirrings in
Washington for Congress to take a hand in the
regulation of the market. Whether new controls
come from Wall Street itself or from Washington,
there is growing recognition that something must
be done: Having transformed the securities busi-
ness into a truly mass market. Wall Street must
now face the responsibilities which this change
entails. Whether it will or not is an open, and
urgent, question.
Harper's Mngnzine, July 1961
I
m^*
Summer is another country
A Story by CHRISTINE WESTON
Draivings by Thomas Feelings
EARLY this morning Danny Tracy came to
mow the hay on my field. As he turned off
the town road into mine, I lek rather than heard
the ponderous tread ol his horse's great fringed
feet on the ground, and ihe delicate creak and
jingle of the mowing machine, for Danny is the
only man in oiu' neighborhood who still uses a
horse and old-fashioned rig lor heavy work.
Still half asleep, for me the sovmd of these
massive feet merged with the long half-dream of
another time, another country. I was standing
with my parents in a window overlooking a
broad street somewhere in London and below us
passed the slow and majestic cortege of King
Edward the VII, and my half-sleeping eyes were
filled once more with a sight of horses with black
plumes growing from their foreheads, of grave-
faced men in splendid dress, and after more than
forty years my ears seemed still to retain the
shuddering ruffle of velvet-covered drums. As the
long processional unwound beneath us I heard
my mother saying: "That must be the Tsar!"
And my father said: "And there goes the King
of Montenegro!"
In my school history book there used to be a
map of Europe, and Montenegro was the smallest
country in it, colored a pale lavender. As a child
I always had an idea of it as being on a scale
with the little painted wooden people and ani-
mals in a toy Noah's Ark, so when I gazed down
at the scene beneath that window I expected the
King of Montenegro to be something tiny and
in keeping with his infinitesimal domain. The
thud of horses' feet, the muted jingle of harness,
drums under their covering of purple velvet-
then I was really awake, and outside my window
a late October sun was resuscitating a few frozen
flies, and I could hear Danny Tracy deep in
conversation with his horse.
I dressed and put the kettle on for coffee and
went outdoors. Danny had already started mov-
ing up the field and the early light touched his
old gray coat and the horse's pointed ears and
made a channel of golden pallor on the fallen
hay. What stood had a pink glow in it like the
reflected heat from a distant fire, and as Danny
came to the end of the field and turned, the
starlings arrived— hundreds of them from no-
28
SUMMER IS ANOTHER COUNTRY
where, black, glittering flakes which settled down
in the fallen hay to feed on the crickets and the
exposed seeds of summer.
When Danny reached the steps where I stood,
he paused to say hello and I saw the tobacco
juice trickling down his face, which, at seventy-
six, had taken on the color and texture of old,
weevil-ridden wood.
"Nice day," he said. "Wind in the nor'west,
looks like we're in for a stretch of fine weather."
Country people deal in the obvious as they
deal in small coin. It is often all they possess.
"You're late this year, Danny," I said. "I was
beginning to wonder whether you would ever
get around to taking the hay."
He laid the reins on the horse's back and
looked at me.
"Been awful busy this fall. Hattie, she sud-
denly got one of her spells of wanting something
new, and nothing would do but what we got to
put in a bathroom." He brought it out with in-
tense deliberation, as though speaking of child-
birth or a serious operation. "A bathroom, mind
you. After fifty years of doing without one, she
suddenly got to have a bathroom for no better
reason but that Nita Merrit just got one."
I looked at the horse, named Hero, standing
stoically in his collar, his blond mane exactly
the color of the hay around him. Seen in profile,
Danny and his horse had the look of relatives-
one perpendicular, spare as a stick, with a great
curving nose, the other horizontal, huge, with a
nose like a landslide, and both of them— man and
horse, brothers in an inexhaustible patience.
I asked Danny whom he had employed to
install the new bathroom, and before answering
he sent a jet of tobacco juice over the off-wheel,
then: "Hollis Merrit from Machias. Best there
is, and I figured we going to sink all that money
in a drain, might as well do it right."
Hero changed feet and flipped his long blond
tail and Danny went on: "One reason I been so
long getting around to your field, I been helping
Hollis with the ditching for the bathroom drain.
Takes two men and it ain't rightly Hollis's job
nohow. Wasn't he's cousin to Hattie, he never
would lay a hand to a shovel, what with his
education and all."
"But what about you, Danny!" I exclaimed.
Born in India of French and English parents,
Christine Weston married an American in 1923.
She lives in Maine hut travels a good deal, and has
written many stories and several novels, including
"Indigo" and ""The Wise Children."
"Should you be doing such hard work?" He
looked as if he might crack in two like an old
dried-out plank. I went on: "Can't you get one
of the younger men around to lend a hand?"
"Lend a hand digging a drain?" His laugh was
toothless and interior. "You ever tried to get one
of them young ones to do chores around here
for you? No sir. They got other ideas, and I
can't say that I blame them. Driving trucks or
working at a filling station is more to their taste,
and that's like it ought to be."
I started to disagree, but he continued as if
he hadn't heard:
"Take my own two boys. Junior's with that
bus outfit as a driver and pulling down a good
salary, and Paul's working in a coffin factory
over to Boston, Mass. Why should they be want-
ing to hang around home, breaking their backs
shoveling manure or working off their taxes
fixing the state highways like I have to?"
He picked up the reins and looked at me with
tiny bright blue eyes. "You given any thought
to what you're going to do about having the hay
cut after I'm gone?"
"Gone?" I echoed, uncomprehending. "Where
in the world are you planning to go, Danny?"
He laughed and slapped the reins on Hero's
broad back.
"Well, we all got a choice between one of two
places, ain't we? Guess I've lived a good clean
life, so I ain't worrying too much."
He spoke to Hero, who turned massively,
drawing the light machine after him, and I
watched them start another swath, disturbing the
starlings which rose as one, described a glittering
circle over Danny's head, then sank like a black
snow storm in the leveled hay.
IW E N T into the house and made breakfast
and carried my coffee cup to the window
where I could see Danny and his big brown horse
move up and down the long golden field, and I
pondered what he had said, asking myself what,
indeed, I would do when he was gone. Ours is
not a wealthy or fashionable part of the world
and labor is scarce and for the most part un-
skilled. Men and women of Danny's generation
and a little younger grew up in an age when
there were few if any mechanical devices. They
worked with their hands and with animals. As
he said, their children have other ideas, and it
is typical of a man like Danny, who knows well
the rigors of adversity, to desire a different his-
tory for his sons.
When I walk through our little town or drive
along these country roads, it is always the
A STORY BY CHRISTINE WESTON
29
%
— ^, H^-
elderly men that I see doing the
hard work— straightening heavy
granite sills, raising chimneys,
painting barns, carpentering,
digging, planting, sawing. They
have the know-how and they
move as Danny moves, with de-
liberation, aware without senti-
mentality or regret that there
is no hurry about anything, any
more.
When he had made a good
start on my field, Danny drove
the mower up beside my steps
and got down and stretched,
then sat beside me in the sun
and drank a cup of coffee while
Hero bent his great nose into
the pail of water I had remem-
bered to draw for him at the
kitchen sink.
"Good to see the hay come down," I said, look-
ing out on the level sweep of the field which
glistened in the sun. "When it's all cleared, it
seems to hold the winter back a little. Things
look more the way they do in spring, before the
grass has begun to grow."
Danny sucked the coffee between his three re-
maining teeth and said:
"Before you bought this place I used to mow it
sometimes, for Asa Merrit. Always been good
friends, Asa and me, but I never did get along
with his wife Nita. Don't to this day, and prob-
ably never will."
I asked what had caused the trouble, and he
gave his sibilant, almost inaudible laugh. "I
suppose that in a way it were my fault, though
I'd as soon be shot as let Nita think so. All hap-
pened on account of her cat."
HERO finished drinking and fluttered his
velvety lips in a great sigh of satisfaction,
and Danny went on: "Nita Merrit always was
kind of soft in the head about them darned cats
of hers. Ever noticed how some women get that
way? Over cats, I mean. You don't hardly ever
see a man make a fool of himself over cats. Over
dogs yes, maybe over horses." He gazed for a
moment at Hero, who stood before us staring
thoughtfully at the ground.
"But not over cats," Danny said. "Or at any
rate / never see a man go plumb crazy over a
cat the way some women do." He tucked a
fresh quid of tobacco into his cheek and con-
tinued: "Nita always owned cats and does to this
day, as you know. Well, it must of been . . . how
old's my boy Paul? Going on thirty. Must of
been twelve years ago it happened. Nita had a
whole raft of cats then, but her favorite, or so
she made it out to be at the time, was a big ugly
brindled tom with one eye but plenty of every-
thing else. Spent his time getting all the other
cats in the neighborhood into trouble. Anyways,
he was a great hunter. He'd kill anything from
mice to rabbits, but Nita— she claimed she loved
all animals, only cats the most— Nita held out
that that darned yellow tom of hers, he wouldn't
hurt a flea. No more he did, I bet— he was full
of 'em."
Danny chewed meditatively for a moment.
"You know how some parents are apt to be
about a worthless kid? The more worthless and
no-account, the more they dotes on him. Well,
that's the way Nita Merrit was about that
brindled tom. She lived in mortal fear something
would happen to him when he was off on one of
his safaris up and down the road. Why, that
cat'd learned that when the hay's cut all kind of
small humble critters suddenly comes to the sur-
face and the birds come down to feed on 'em.
Minute he heard Hero and me coming down the
road he'd take after us. No matter if we was go-
ing a mile, or two miles, every time I looked back
over my shoulder there was Nita's yellow tom
loping along, enough murder in his one eye as
would have done for twenty normal cats. When
time come to cut the hay, there was Nita stand-
ing on her doorstep hollering for me to wait until
she got the tom into the house. Sometimes she
did, sometimes he was too smart for her and was
up the road and ahead of us. It most drove Nita
30
SUMMER IS ANOTHER COUNTRY
out of her mind because she was afeard he'd get
lost in the long hay and my cutter-bar would
shear the legs often him. Or else Hero would
step on him. She made me swear I never would
start mowing without first letting her know so
she'd be sure to have that maneater tucked safely
in his crib, the little darling. Goddam him."
Danny chewed his cud, and I listened to the
crickets ticking in the frcsh-cui grass. Danny
went on:
"One day I came doAvn here to mow as
usual, and I guess I must of had something on
my mind because so help me 1 clean forgot to
warn Nita I was coming, and wouldn't you know
it would be just that one day it had to happen?
I never even see that old \ellow cat stalking the
starlings until the cutter-bar was right atop of
him, and then it was too late." Danny looked
at me gravely. "I'd always heard tell that a cat
has nine lives, and that was one time when I
wished it had been true. But that poor darned
cat was a goner the minute the cutter-bar went
into him, and I had to break the news to Nita
myself because Asa said he'd be shot if he
Avould."
"What happened then?" I asked, thinking of
Nita Merrit, big-bosomed, fierce-eyed and vocal,
mother of eight children and an untold number
of cats.
Danny was silent a moment, then: "Don't
know as you ever heard— you ain't been here too
long— but my boy Paul had been going with
Nita's daughter Ann Marie ever since they was
in grade school together. It was one of those
things don't often happen in real life, but we all
knew— that is. Hatiie and I kncnv. Asa and Nita
knew, all our friends knew, that those kids meant
everything to each other. Of course they'd have
to have waited until they was both out of school,
but everybody understood how it was going to be
between them— until the day my cutter-bar got
Nita's brindled tom, and I had to carry him back
dead in my handkerchief, and the moment I
laid that defunct cat on her doorstep, that was it.
Accident or no accident didn't make no differ-
ence to her. I'm telling you, if I'd sawed the legs
off Nita herself, it couldn't have been more ter-
rible the way she carried on."
"And the kids?" I asked. 'AVhat happened to
them?"
"Nita broke it up. She sent Ann Marie away
to live with relatives in New Jersey, and she
scared Hattie and me so with her threats, we pre-
vailed on Paul to try and forget all about it."
Danny sighed. "I don't know now but what we
made a big mistake. Paul was always the quiet
kind and he made out like he was taking the
whole thing sensibly, but the day Ann Marie
went away, he swallowed the poison which I al-
ways kept in the barn, against rats, and he like to
have died. Oh, he got over it, and now he's mar-
ried to someone else and got two kids and I guess
he don't waste much time brooding over Ann
Marie Merrit. Though I don't know. Comes
over me once in a while, you feel strongly
enough to try to kill yourself over something, it
must kind of stay ^vith you one way and another,
the rest of your life."
AL L day I could see Danny mowing the
lia\. ;iii(l then it was finished and lay flat
and shining in the sun, and he raked it into
windrows and jiitched it into the haycart on
which he'd put okl automobile tires, and I
watched him working, a lean old man in shabby
clothes, old but still lithe, and when the hay was
piled in the cart the field emerged strange and
green as in early summer, and presently I saw
Danny walking toward the house carrying some-
thing in his hand and smiling in a pleased sort
of way.
I went down the steps to meet him and he
held out the object— a silver watch, stained and
tarnished, but with its glass intact.
"Found this right where I must have dropped
it," he said. "Been calculating, and I figure it
was in the fall of 1940, just before we got into
the war."
The watch had stopped at 12:30 and the main-
spring was gone, but Danny gazed at it fondly.
"My uncle sentme that watch from Switzerland
year Hattie and I was married, and I felt real
bad when I lost it. Hunted everywhere for it,
and I must have combed this field inch by inch
at the time, but never did find it. Then today
when I was lifting a pitchfork of hay back there
halfAvay acrost your field, I see the light hit some-
thing and it gave back a great spark, like it was
trying to catch my eye— and there it lay where it
been lying for going on nineteen years!"
"Suppose you can have it fixed so it ^vill run?"
I asked, but he shook his head.
"^\'ouIdn't hardly be worth it. And anyway,
there will always be one time of day when it'll be
telling the light time. Guess I'd rather leave it
at that."
He clambered into the cart and almost dis-
appeared in the great fragrant mass, and I stood
and Avatched two seasons mo\'e away down my
little road, and I could hear the starlings, hun-
dreds of them, feeding in the young, frail green
of next year's grass.
Hnrjier's Magazine, July 1961
PETER F. DRUCKER
A PLAN FOR REVOLUTION
IN LATIN AMERICA
From the Andes to the Caribbean, a new
generation of able and angry young leaders
is battling against stupid and corrupt
governments as well as poverty. . . . A new kind
of help could insure victory on both fronts.
UNDER ihe shock of the Cuban fiasco last
April, Congress anted up the first §600-
million installment on President Kennedy's Plan
for Latin America. This coming month the
American Republics \\ill meet in Uruguay to
submit their proposals on how to use the money.
If the Kennedy Plan works out— and the Cuban
affair was not the ideal send-off— it will rival the
|13 billion and six years of the Marshall Plan
that restored Western Europe.
But the aim of the Kennedy Plan is a much more
ambitious one. It is not to restore, but to build
something brand-new: a Latin America capable
of attaining by its own efforts both rapid eco-
nomic growth and social justice. This would
mean a real, though peaceful, revolution through-
out an entire continent of t^vo hundred million
people. Therefore its success will depend less
on American money than on what Latin America
can and will do for herself.
Money cannot buy the most essential develop-
ment resource of the Americas: genuine patriots,
free of both the callous indifference of the old
"ruling classes," and of the impassioned jingoism
of the self-styled "intellectuals." Industrializa-
tion, though vital, is not enough by itself; unless
it is paralleled by major advances in agriculture
and public service, it distorts as much as it de-
velops.
At the root of the profound crisis of Latin
America— of which Castro's Cuba is a symptom
rather than a cause— is not economic stagnation
but exactly the opposite: the stresses and strains
of the most rapid economic growth anywhere in
the world today. The continuing demands for
faster and faster economic development arise
less out of a desire for a higher standard of living
than as a protest against age-old social injustices,
injustices inherited in large part from conquista-
dor and colonial viceroy, if not from Inca and
Aztec.
Because Latin America has been growing so
fast economically, it presents a major opportu-
nity to U.S. policy. No other part of the underde-
veloped world is so close to the "take-off point,"
the point at which economic gro^vth becomes
self-sustaining. But the very speed of the advance
has created social and political Avhirlwinds that
threaten to blow Latin America off her shaky
eighteenth-century foundations.
Venezuela, Peru, Ecuador— perhaps even
Mexico— might have gone "fidelista" these last
twelve months, if it hadn't been for Fidel Castro
himself. His strutting, his oppression of the mid-
dle class, and his suppression of all liberties-
above all, his clumsy interference in other Latin
American countries— lost him a good many of his
earlier admirers, including even many pro-Com-
munists. But the ills which lead to "fidcJismo"
are, of course, still there, untreated, let alone un-
cured.
THE FASTEST BOOM
IN THE WORLD
MOST of Latin America is, of course, desper-
ately poor. Most of it is "underdeveloped." But
the fact that half the Latin American people
still live as their fathers did is much less signifi-
cant than the fact that the other half have been
32
A PLAN FOR REVOLUTION
living in a tremendous industrial boom these last
ten or fifteen years. Nowhere in the world has
economic growth been faster than in Puerto
Rico; in Mexico City and Monterrey; in Cali and
Medellin, the two industrial cities of Colombia;
around Lima, Peru; and in Brazil's "industrial
triangle" between Rio, Belo Horizonte, and Sao
Paulo. In some of these areas, growth rates of 10
])er cent a year and more have been common-
place. *
This boom has j^roduced a new economic
strength. Only a decade ago a collapse of com-
modity prices would have crushed every Latin
American economy; and all (excepting Mexico)
are still dependent on the exjjort of one— or at
most two— commotli ties, such as coffee, petroleum,
or copper. Although in the past few years com-
modity prices fell as fast and almost as far as they
did during the depression, onh Bolivia's econ-
omy broke down (and there chiefly because of
mismanagement of the nationalized— and almost
exhausted— tin mines). A good many countries-
Peru, Mexico, Colombia, and to some degree
even coffee-dependent Brazil— managed to keep
growing. And exccj)t for those in Cuba that have
been confiscated by Castro, the manufacturing
companies in Latin America that I know of are
doing well.
Socially, the boom is creating a middle class.
No longer are the rich getting richer and the
poor getting poorer. During the last ten or fif-
teen years, the biggest gains have been made by
a new urban middle class of skilled \\'orkers, small
businessmen, clerks, technicians, j^rofessionals,
and managers. The Brazilian worker, to be sure,
does not drive to the plant in an automobile; he
is lucky to get a seat on an overcrowded bus. Yet
in the ghastly traffic jams that tie up Rio and Sao
Paulo every morning and evening, the million-
aires' Cadillacs are vastly outnumbered by the
grocers' battered Ford half-trucks and the
mechanics' Volkswagens. Nor do millionaires or
big landowners occupy all the t;dl apartment
houses that are shooting up like mushrooms in
every Latin American city, from Monterrey in the
North to Santiago de Chile in the South.
Perhaps the most convincing evidence of the
social change is the fact that the 150,000 Cuban
refugees, with few exceptions, are of the new
* Only Argentina and Chile— paradoxically the
countries with the highest standard of living, the
highest literacy, and the largest middle class— have
not advan(ecl. The ff)nncr was so systematically
plundered under Pcron that years f>f hard work will
be needed to biiiig it back to where it was twenty
years ago.
middle class. In some Latin Anurican (oinurics
the middle class is already large enough lo sup-
port a number of muiu.d iiu'estment trusts hold-
ing local securities— something unimaginable
thirty years ago. Latin America is the oidv ))art
of the world, other than Russia, wheie the luuu-
ber of doctors is increasing lasier than the l>op-
ulation. Too many Indian villages in Peru still
have no school at all. But the Uiiiversitv of
Cuzco, 12,000 feet uj) in the Ancles, is packed
with eager Indian youngsters who come from
schools that did not exist twenty years ago. Their
parents still live, illiterate, in the Early Bronze
Age.
And change has been greatest in arens the
economist does not count as "income" or "nut-
put": the widening of the horizon through the
movie, the ubiquitous radio, and (iiureasingly)
the TV set; the new mobility created bv dirt
roads, trucks, buses, and (increasingly) airplanes;
the ne^v access to education. These new ways of
living have made their greatest impact in the
poorest city shuns and in sharecroppers' shanties.
At the same ' time, a growing imbalance
between advancing industry and stagnant
agriculture has lured into the cities masses of
the poorest and least skilled peasants. This new
proletariat has created a major social problem.
As a result of the new economic growth and
social mobility, social injustices hitherto taken
for granted are no longer bearable. Old slogans
and even older alignments can no longer produce
})olitical leadership and power.
The Latin American industrial worker, espe-
cially in the many small shops, is poorly equipped
and trained, and rarely well managed. He turns
out an average of SI, 500 worth of goods a )ear.
This is no more than a fifth of the U.S. figure,
and just about half that of northern Italy. But
it is twice what it was fifteen years ago. By con-
trast, the Latin American farmer turns out only
S300 worth of stuff a year— a little less than he
produced fifteen years ago.
The immediate economic result is a growing
food shortage. The Latin American, who is much
Peter F. Driicker has averaged more than one
trip a year to Latin America in the past decade. As
a management consultant to American business, he
has worked ivith Latin American affiliates of U.S.
companies and with Latin American government
agencies and universities. As an admirer of pre-
Inca and Inca civilizations, he has found his favorite
recreation in the mountains of Peru. Mr. Drucker's
many hooks include "Landmarks of Tomorrow"
and "The New Society."
BY PETER F. DRUCKER
33
better supplied with manufactured goods of all
kinds, is getting less to eat. Population has
doubled since 1940. Food supply has not kept
step. A good many model farms and plantations
have proved that Latin American agriculture can
produce high yields. But on the whole, the yields
have not improved for a century and are now
among the lowest in the world. In every Latin
American country (except Mexico perhaps) agri-
cultural stagnation increasingly offsets industrial
gains, and food deficits increasingly threaten an
already precarious balance of payments.
Yet, contrary to popular belief, the land is not
now overpopulated. As Felipe Herrera, the
Chilean director of the Inter-American Develop-
ment Bank, puts it: Latin America's problem
is not "the distribution of land among people
but of people on the land." The interiors of
Ecuador and Venezuela are empty, and so is the
Brazilian west.
Although the big city sucks in peasants, in-
dustry in Latin America employs only one-eighth
of the work force— less than half the U.S. pro-
portion. But 40 per cent of the population—
almost the same ratio as in the U.S.— lives in
cities of over 500,000. Mexico City is as large
as Chicago— around six million. Sao Paulo, Rio,
and Buenos Aires have around four million each.
Bogota, Caracas, Havana, Lima, Montevideo, and
Santiago are all well above the million mark.
All these metropolitan areas have at least doubled
since World War II.
But there is little work for these largely un-
skilled and illiterate millions. Many do not speak
the Spanish or Portuguese of the city but their
own Indian tongues. The inrush has been so
great that it would have overwhelmed even much
richer cities. Housing, water, schools, trans-
portation, and sewers are lacking, but one sees
radio aerials on orange-crate and oil-can shacks,
palm-frond shanties, and hillside caves which
ring the magnificent bay of Rio de Janeiro. It
is small wonder that the slums smolder with
deep, sullen resentment in the shadow of gleam-
ing factories and apartment houses. And the
countryside also smolders. It is this discontent,
of course, to which Castro appealed in Cuba,
as well as in the rest of the continent. The
revolt of the " carnpesi )ws"— whether still on the
land or in the city slums— is, in origin, a pop-
ulist revolt: against the city and the "bankers,"
against a stupid and corrupt government that
does nothing for the poor but tax them. In this
mood of despair the new proletariat is receptive
to the siren songs of the demagogue. Today's
siren does not ^voo them merely with a Cross-of-
Gold speech. He i dies also on secret police, guns,
and support from "big brother" in Moscow.
Even the oldest Latin .\merican hand sees
all this. What he fails to see or to under-
stand are the new men who are the products of
both economic advance and social injustice. Yet
these are the new leaders who will decide which
way Latin America will go.
THE NEW MEN
TE N years ago the president of a large
South American business— a very gracious,
well-educated liberal of the old school— con-
gratulated himself publicly on having quite a
few executives of middle-class origin in the com-
pany. "Just imagine," he said, "the father of our
chief engineer, Pedro Sanchez, was a mailman in
a small town!" Today not even the worst moss-
back would comment on this phenomenon. Social
mobility is invading the most exclusive sanctu-
aries of the old order (such as that citadel of
"aristocracy," the Club Nacional in Lima).
Politics shows this clearly. Traditionally, poli-
tics in Latin America had long been reserved
for the large landowner, the lawyer, professor-
journalist, and general. But Brazil's last presi-
dent, Kubitschek, was a surgeon and the son of a
Czech immigrant. The new mayor of Sao Paulo,
Prestes Maia, is an architect; and so is the odds-on
favorite in this year's presidential election in
Peru, Fernando Belaunde Terry.
These new and amazingly capable men (and
there are many of them) are young and they are
angry. iVIost of them came up the hard way.
They know from personal experience what life
is like on the sidewalk and in the peon's shack.
They burn with hatred for the injustices, the
senseless waste, the indignity and suffering in
which they grew up and in which ilieir parents,
brothers, and cousins still live.
They know too that it need not be like this.
They have seen what economic development can
do; and they no longer are philosophically re-
signed to their society. .\s a result, they are
terribly impatient with the economist, the
banker, the diplomat, who talk of j^ayments bal-
ances, business confidence, and capital accumula-
tion, rather than of people, their needs, and
their potentials.
Because the new men fuse economic develop-
ment and social justice, they are rapidly winning
political leadership. They are backed, as a rule,
l)y neither of the two traditional power centers
—the military iind ihc jjoliiical machines. But
the traditional political structures, their slogans.
34
A PLAN FOR REVOLUTION
and leaders are becoming obsolete— precisely be-
cause, if "conservative," they stress only economic
development and, if "radical," they stress only
social justice. But today the people of Latin
America demand both. Even the poorest now
know how other, more fortunate people live.
Social justice is no longer a millennial hope.
It is the Sears store on the city's outskirts where
even Indians are served courteously. It is the
peon's son who owns a chain of service stations,
buys a Fiat, and sends his boys to college. It is
the eight-story anny hospital where, rumor has
it, even a common soldier lies on sheets. As a
result, economic development is measured by
the people— and by their new leaders— by what
it fails to do rather than by what it does. It is
measured by the yardstick of social justice— and
found wanting.
WHERE WILL THE MONEY
COME FROM?
SO T H E main job ahead in Latin America
is political— to make economic growth spur
social justice, and to make the hunger for justice
hurry up the process of growth. For even the
greatest economic success will be wasted unless
the political and social structure of the con-
tinent is fundamentally changed.
The economic prescription itself is fairly ob-
vious. Industry must be built up fast, because
millions of people must have jobs which only
industry can supply. Equally needed is a rapid
increase in farm output, to close the food gap.
^Ve know perfectly well how to do both of these
things. The money is available. The difficulties
in using it— in the right places, at the right
time— will be political, not economic.
The double job will cost, roughly, S20 billion
a year, for the next five years. At least 90 per
cent of this money will have to come from the
Latin Americans themselves. They can find it,
if they really try. It would still be a smaller
share of Latin American income than the amount
India— a much poorer country— plows into her
Five-year Plans. And in the boom areas of Latin
.\merica new capital is being formed faster than
almost any place else in the world. The trouble
is that too much of the new capital is being
wasted in real-estate speculation, and too many
of the rich still pay practically no taxes
A common-sense and hard-handed reform of
the Latin American tax laws can do much to
(ure both of these evils. (In Venezuela it is
already under way.) And until such reforms are
carried out, Latin America can hardly hope to
get much public aid from the United States.
How can our taxpayers be expected to rescue
these countries, so long as their own rich people
rarely pay any income tax at all?
The remaining 10 per cent— or about $2
billion a year— will have to come from the out-
side. Not more than half of this should come
from the U.S. government. Europe, Japan, the
World Bank, private investors, and export sur-
pluses, are perfectly capable of the rest.
How this money is allocated will be a matter
of the utmost delicacy and importance. If private
investment flows to the wrong places, it may
well do more harm than good— and the same
thing is true of money from public agencies.
Here are a few basic facts which the planners
ought to keep in mind:
1. Any nation will be uneasy if too large a
share of its resources and industry are controlled
by foreigners— as we have learned in Cuba, Can-
ada, and Mexico.
2. Latin Americans are particularly sensitive
about foreign ownership of their oil, electric
utilities, telephone systems, and railroads; and
because of long-continued, patient Marxist prop-
aganda, millions of people in the Southern
Hemisphere are convinced that investment in
these fields by foreign companies— "capitalist im-
perialists, ' in the Marxist jargon— is especially
bad.
3. On the other hand, they welcome foreign
investment in manufacturing and distribution.
The great majority of such investments (many
of them from Europe) have proved mutually sat-
isfactory. "Partnership" enterprises, in which
local citizens own a considerable part of the
stock, have been almost immune from political
attack. Although the "partnership" device is
not always feasible, it should at least be con-
sidered by anyone planning to invest in Latin
America.
4. There simply is not enough capital in the
world to industrialize all of the underdeveloped
countries— African and Asian, as well as Latin
American— as rapidly as they would like. There-
fore, every penny of foreign investment should
be put in the places where it will do the most
good. One way to accomplish this with a min-
imum of pain and political uproar will be men-
tioned in a moment.
5. Foreign investment— public or private— can
be effective only in those countries whose govern-
ments have enough courage to do some extremely
unpopular things; and enough political strength
and ingenuity to get them accepted by public
opinion.
BY PETER F. DRUCKER
35
For example, every country in Latin America
now has a crisis in fuel, electric energy, and
transport. In Argentina, admittedly the worst
case, up to one-third of the harvest is lost for
want of locomotives or locomotive fuel. A shoe
factory in Rosario had to shut down five out
of every eight working hours last year, because
of power failures. And in Brazil, high shipping
costs have priced many common commodities-
paper, for instance, and edible oils— out of the
mass market.
A main reason for all this is that the in-
dustries concerned are politically sensitive. The
Argentine government has not yet dared to lay
off the hordes of Peron's political appointees,
who still hold about half the railway jobs. Be-
cause it is politically dangerous to raise utility
rates anywhere, they are still pegged at pre-infla-
tion levels, in spite of a ten- or twenty-fold rise
in other prices. Consequently, the utility com-
panies (whether owned locally or by foreign
investors) have rarely made a nickel in the last
five years— and therefore they can't get the capital
for new equipment, to meet a doubling of the
population and a four-fold growth in demand.
But solutions can be found Avhich arc politi-
cally feasible, as Argentina has recently dem-
onstrated in its oil industry. Ownership of oil
properties will remain with the state, but ex-
ploration and management will be handled by
foreign companies, making a fair but attr.'.ctive
profit. In similar fashion, devices might he found
for lending public money (perhaps from the
World Bank) to rehabilitate railroad beds— some
of which have had neither maintenance nor
new equipment for thirty years— while private
capital is used to purchase new cars and loco-
motives.
Similar political courage will be needed to
step up production in agriculture. AVhat is
needed is such familiar items as farm credit, rural
roads, co-ops, farm agents to teach new methods,
improved seed, fertilizer, and power. Rut before
these can be effective, two big political obsta-
cles have to be cleared away:
A. Land reform is needed in some— though
by no means all— parts of Latin America. Espe-
cially in the fertile central valley of Tlhile and
in the northwestern "Bulge" of Brazil, the big
feudal estates need to be split up into family-
sized farms. In more areas, tiny, marginal farms-
split up every time they have been handed down
from a father to his sons for many generations
—need to be consolidated.
B. Some traditional crops have to be aban-
doned. Coffee in central Brazil is sacred, as much
a way of life as cotton was in our pre-Civil War
South. Yet half o' the coffee land has deterio-
rated so badly that it should be switched im-
mediately into grains, livestock, or timber. To
cite one more instance out of many, unimjjroved
corn has been the traditional crop in southern
Mexico since Aztec days; until it is abandoned
for more productive crops, no increase in farm
yields and income is possible.
So far, however, no Mexican government has
dared tackle this problem, and no Brazilian
politician has even hinted that King Coffee's
throne is shaky. Meddling with land tenure or
traditional crops is always dangerous, everywhere
—as our own politicians know only too well.
NEED FOR "spectaculars"
D(^ Z E N S of sound programs are being
worked on in Latin America— for housing,
education, farm credit, or public health. But
they take forever to show results. Meanwhile
the people perish for lack of vision. We must
accept the fact that uniform development of the
entire continent is not possible. The small coun-
tries will move only if the big ones do well.
Hence development j)rojects in the small coun-
tries are not likely to be fruitful. After all, over
two-thirds of Latin America's population lives
in four countries: Brazil, Mexico, .Argentina, and
Colombia. Of the others only the three mineral
producers, Venezuela, Peru, and Chile (ac-
counting together for an additional 15 per cent
of the continent's population), can ever be eco-
nomically viable. Indeed, in the case of Chile,
the greatest development contribution would
be the long-discussed Latin American Common
Market which would provide customers for
Chile's large steel capacity.
Within the bigger countries, "spectaculars"
are needed, big projects which catch tlic peoj)le's
imagination. A lot of little projects cannot do
this. Economically, it is true, such "spectacidars"
may be questionable. But so was T\''.'\ in 19.84.
So also was Puerto Rico's "Operation Bootstrap"
when it started during World ^Var II. Yet it has
given this desperately poor island proportion-
ately the liiglicst industrial employment and the
highest labor income in Latin America.
Here are a few "spectaculars" worth pon-
dering:
• The "Bulge" of Brazil might become a
model farming region. Today it looks very much
like our Souih around 19.S3: thirty million peo-
ple living in semicolonial dej:)endence on run-
down, eroded, and drought-stricken land. Five
36
A PLAN FOR REVOLUTION
lo eight years of concentrated effort could estab-
lish there, for instance: one model farm to every
five hundred or one thousand farmers; one decent
co-op— supplying marketing, purchasing, credit,
and technical advice— for every one to two thou-
sand farms; primitive networks of rural roads
and rural power; one county agent for every two
to five thousand farm families; and finally five
hundred small plants processing local products
or producing simple consumer goods and farm
supplies. This takes hard work— but it is feasible.
• Chile could meet its oTvn food requirements
in five years— without much difficulty. It has
land, the climate, even some of the skills. What
is called for is intelligent land reform Avhich gives
the cidtivator an incentive to improve the land
plus roads, marketing co-ops, and rural credit.
In Chile— and in neighboring Peru as well-
modest investments in fishing and fish processing
would yield a rapidly improved diet. The cool
offshore waters are teeming with sea food, w^hile
the people's diet is desperately short of proteins.
Or, we might concentrate in the coastal desert
of Peru all our efforts to de-salt sea ^vater and
produce electricity in atomic reactors. AVater is
so valuable to this excellent but completely arid
land that atomic power and de-salted water
would be economical, even at today's costs. And
millions of Indians in the Andes are desper-
ate for land.
• And in oil-rich but job-poor Venezuela ^\e
might try a repetition of the Puerto Rican story—
an organized development effort through private
industry, aimed at doubling national income
and increasing factory jobs ten-fold in a decade.
These are illustrations only— and not neces
sarily the right ones. (Perhaps I have put too
much stress on needs; in terms of opportunity,
Colombia might well deserve top priority.) But
the principle is clear: money, skill, and man-
power should be focused on a few heroic tasks
that fire the imagination and show what can be
done. They must not be frittered away by spread-
ing them thin over the whole enormous area.
WAITING FOR UNCLE
IX THE last analysis, Latin America will
develop as it shifts from dependence on others
to dependence on itself. Social justice is not a
matter of money but of will, not a problem for
the economist but a task for the patriot, requir-
ing leadership and community action rather
than investment.
When the preseni president of Brazil,
Janio Quadros, was mayor of Sao Paulo
a few years back, he transformed the city by
clearing slums, building roads, sewers, water
mains, putting buses on the streets. And yet he
left the place— which was bankrupt when he took
over— debt-free and with a surplus. Doria Felisa
Rincon de Gautier, the remarkable woman mayor
of San Juan, Puerto Rico, has ^vroiight similar
miracles. These f^vo work quite differently—
Quadros with cold, dedicated brilliance, Doiia
Felisa as an unmistakably feminine La Guardia.
But both have shown how much can be done
without waiting for outside help.
In Colombia, the Coffee Growers' Federation is
tackling rural problems without a cent of gov-
ernment money or foreign aid. The farmers
are taught to reap more and better coffee from
only a selected part of their— usually— tiny hold-
ings. The rest of their land is put into better-
paying crops such as bananas, cacao, and oil
seeds. Above all, the Federation is trying to
educate future farmers by building elementary
schools in isolated mountain regions and sup-
porting a 4-H Club program.
In neighboring Venezuela, the new democratic
government through its land-development pro-
gram in 1959 and f960 made owner-farmers out
of 90,000 former tenants, farm laborers, and
ex-farmers— almost one-tenth of the country's en-
tire population. As a result, Venezuela no longer
needs to import such major staples as rice,
corn, and cotton. This took money, to be sure;
but even more important were the opening of
new land to cidtivation; providing seed, advice,
and intelligent plans; building a co-operative
marketing system.
There are plenty of lesser examples. In Peru,
for instance, an American priest. Father Daniel
McLellan, six years ago, founded the first credit
union with a capital of a himdred dollars. It has
noA\' loaned over a million dollars without a
single default. And five thousand of the poorest
Peruvians have made down payments on decent
homes.
These encouraging situations are not, however,
typical. The present Peruvian Congress— consid-
ered rather "leftish"— closes the door to American
aid by refusing to adopt land and tax reforms
which are much less radical than those McKin-
ley's Republican Congress imposed on newly-
annexed Puerto Rico sixty years ago. Progress
is slowed not only by vested interests but by
heritage of a colonial past when even the least
change had to await a decision by the viceroy,
or a distant king in Madrid. Now that there is
no viceroy, the tendency is to wait for Uncle Sam.
For instance, a visiting Yankee (a prominent
BY PETER F. DRUCKER
37
Catholic layman) was recently harangued by
South America's most progressive Catholic bishop
about his parishioners' terrible housing, ignor-
ance, filth, illiteracy, and disease.
"What does the diocese do about these things?"
the visitor asked.
"We do anything?" the bishop replied. "My
question is: What are you in New York and
Washington going to do about our conditions
here?"
Fortunately all over Latin America the old
crust of colonial custom and inertia is being
cracked by younger leaders who don't know that
impatience is impolite. But for development to
be fast and effective— and, above all, for it to
come in freedom rather than in totalitarian
tyranny— the new men must persuade the Latin
American to ask: What can I do? rather than:
What do I need?
NOT TOO MUCH
WHAT could and should the United
States do in and for Latin America?
Economically, not too much. But politically,
we might make all the difference. Latin America
will be expensive for the American taxpayer.
But it will cost much more if it collapses into
revolution and dictatorship than if it grows to
stability and prosperity. Substantial funds should
be committed for five or ten years for a develop-
ment program, particularly for the "spectaculars."
Small sums should be invested as seed money in
many ventures like rural co-ops, savings-and-loan
associations, and railroad rolling stock. Quick
financial blood transfusions will continue to be
needed in acute emergencies— such as a sharp
sudden drop in the price of a chief export staple,
the "austerity crisis" that always occurs during
a fight against inflation, or a major natural catas-
trophe such as the Chilean earthquake last year.
Latin America will also continue to need U.S.
government guarantees for export credits.
As noted earlier, the total burden on our gov-
ernment will come to roughly a billion dollars
a year— but the actual outflow of cash need not be
anything like that big. Surplus food will account
for a good part, while much of the rest will flow
back through the purchase of American ma-
chinery and other goods.
We must also provide something scarcer than
money: trained people. Illiteracy in Latin
America is due not so much to lack of school-
houses as to lack of teachers. J. P. Grace recently
proposed that the U.S. train two thousand Latin
Americans a year to teach in elementary schools.
This would cost around $6 million annually.
But it might double the literacy rate in rural
areas within ten years. A modest training pro-
gram for agricultural extension teachers might
have an even greater impact.
Still scarcer than teachers are capable man-
agers for business, irrigation districts, school-
construction programs, co-operatives. One way
to provide them is through a "management con-
tract" with a foreign business, university, or
labor union (under which foreigners manage
while ownership remains in the country). This is
how, for instance, Brazil's growing steel industry
was developed. A management contract is not
philanthropy. The faster the foreign contractor
works himself out of a job by training his own
successors, the better it should pay. Such con-
tracts could offer attractive opportunities to
some of our large corporations and make it
profitable for them to hire and train capable
young men. Three years of running a school-
construction program in the Andes might do
more to make a top-flight manager out of a
young engineer than any number of courses in
advanced management.
HOW TO INTERFERE
PAINLESSLY
TH E traditional tools of "foreign aid"—
money and trained men— will never do the
job until Latin Americans face up to the tough
things which they alone can do: collect taxes
from the rich and clean out the sinecure jobs
in the swollen government services; push through
land reform and cheap mass housing; stop sub-
sidizing the wrong crops; get rid of the petti-
fogging regulations that now separate the indi-
vidual states of Brazil by mountains of red tape;
enforce the factory and mining-inspection laws
already on the statute books; and say "no" to the
blackmail of the generals who habitually threaten
to overthrow a regime unless they get a few
more unneeded jet planes, tanks, or destroyers.
Only the Latin Americans can mobilize their
own trained manpower, now often pitifully im-
der-used. They have men as good as any we can
muster: Argentina's Raul Prebisch, Peru's
Romulo Ferrero, Chile's Felipe Herrera, or the
West Indian Arthur W. Lewis, the greatest
authority on rural development in the tropics.
Other experts (and many younger men) have
been boxed in by the pettiness of local politics;
by the snobbery of local society; or simply by the
conviction of their elders that everything worth-
while comes from Paris or a German university.
38
A PLAN FOR REVOLUTION
So our greatest contribution to the develop-
ment of Latin America will be to make high
demands, with teeth in them. This, of course, is
"interference." But giving or investing money
in an underdeveloped country is interference
anyhow— the only question is: To what end? We
must make sure that we interfere on the side of
Latin America's future.
How can we do this without arousing insuper-
able resentment and resistance?
The answer, I think, lies in a great (though
almost unknown) American invention. We in-
vented it as part of the Marshall Plan, which
never could have worked without it. It was the
European Economic Organization— an executive
committee, with members from all the countries
involved, which made the hard, unpleasant de-
cisions about the rebuilding of Europe. It worked
hand in hand with American experts, but the
decisions were made— and enforced— by the
Europeans themselves.
What we need now is a similar Inter-American
Economic Organization, which will work out
over-all plans for developing the whole conti-
nent. It must set priorities, and see that efforts
are concentrated on major programs. It must
decide (consulting with U.S. experts) where dol-
lars and trained men can be used best.
No one nation can do this for itself, and we
alone cannot do it, either. If the United States
were to deny an airport to, say, Honduras, be-
cause the money can be better spent on a road
in Brazil, every Honduran politician would
scream his head off. Or if we insisted on land
reform in El Salvador, under threat of with-
holding aid, we would instantly be accused of
"imperialist interference." (On the other hand,
if we demand nothing, we shall be blackmailed
into supporting every unpopular and obsolete
government which threatens to send a trade mis-
sion to Moscow.)
But if these same things are demanded by a
non-national agency, speaking for the whole
Latin American community, in the name of a
common development goal, Honduras and El
Salvador can yield gracefully. (Perhaps even
gratefully.) Only an organization of this kind
can enlist the ablest men and women of the con-
tinent, for service wherever they are needed. Only
such an organization can arouse the enthusiasm,
and the sense of unified purpose, which will
make the Kennedy Plan workable.
To avoid the worst mistake of the Marshall
Plan it must also exact at the outset a commit-
ment from every country to start giving develop-
ment aid to others as soon as it is over the first
hurdles. We must never again be forced to beg
for crumbs off the groaning tables of countries
we saved only a few years earlier.
A common Inter-American Organization could,
finally, establish stirring goals— for instance, to
double, within a decade, Latin America's literacy
rate, its food supply, and national income. And
it could deliver.
With double its literacy and its food supply,
Latin America would still not be overeducated
or overfed. After doubling incomes, the average
per family would still be below $1,000 a year
whereas even in Puerto Rico it is now $1,700.
And there would be plenty of other troubles still
ahead, particularly in the small Central American
Republics, which will grow more painful as eco-
nomic expectations rise. But only in this fashion
can Latin America become capable of soaring
higher under its own power— self-confident and
truly independent.
And this, after all, is the only goal U.S. policy
can hope to attain. "To keep out Communism"
—our negative objective in the last decade— can
do no more than keep smoldering fires from
becoming rampant. To bring about regimes sub-
servient to us— which is how Latin America in-
terpreted the Dulles policy— cannot work: Latin
America has progressed too far for that. And
there is no point in our playing Lady Bountiful,
in the hope of being loved in return.
Our true job is to build a partnership between
the United States and the new leaders of Latin
America, the young, educated men with energy
and ambition who no longer take "manana" for
an answer. They know themselves what needs
doing. Our role is to help them create the grow-
ing, strong, and truly independent Latin America
they rightly believe to be within reach.
The .I^GOO-million appropriation for Latin
America by the U.S. Congress is a first step. So
are the development plans now being worked out
by every Latin American government, each of
which is naturally trying to get as much for it-
self as it can. The key task, however, is still to
be tackled: the creating of a new kind of political
leadership in this country as well as in Latin
America. Neither the American people nor the
Latins yet understand that this is not just an-
other "aid" program . . . that it is a long first step
beyond passive "containment" of the revolution-
ary forces in the world today . . . that the purpose
of aid is not primarily to create wealth, but to
create justice, vision, and commitment to ac-
tion . . . and that the Kennedy Plan is our first—
and if it fails, perhaps our last— entry as active
contenders into "competitive co-existence."
Harper's Magazine, July 1V61
New York Is Different
MARION K. SANDERS
Any resemblance between the politicians in
this story and any actual persons (living or dead
from, the neck up) is strictly intentional.
THIS is a Democratic town, you got
nothing to worry about," Ernie said.
He is a sawed-off little guy with a droopy mus-
tache who does not look at all like one of the
smartest District Leaders in New York. He lit a
cigarette and passed the pack to Mr. Kenneth B.
Dinsmore— a six-foot-three hunk of crew-cut who
was already smoking a pipe.
Ernie is always edgy in Mayoralty years and
a late primary is the worst. Anyone who wants
to can file a petition, and we may not be sure
who the candidates are until a lot of Democrats
knock each other out on September 7. Then
there are only two months left to mend fences
before Election Day. Of course we will win, but
too many Republicans are going around with big
grins on their faces. Like Governor Nelson
Rockefeller who still has his eye on the White
House. The Administration in Washington
worries about the situation in New York almost
as much as Laos. Instead of the CIA they have
sent us Mr. Dinsmore who likes to be called Hal.
He went to school with Bobby Kennedy or
maybe Teddy and is the new nonpolitical type
of candidate who has never run for anything.
We are supposed to put him on our ticket maybe
for Comptroller or Council President, depending
on who gets dumped or pulls out. No matter
what they say now, anyone can change his mind
about running up to August 10, which is the last
day for declining nominations and m-aking sub-
stitutions. Until then we will carry Mr. Dins-
more as a spare part, if he goes for the idea
which we will have to sell him.
This is why Ernie Glickman and I were holed
up in a bedroom-and-parlor suite at the Biltmore
with Hal and his wife Carol. She is a Dallas
girl whose Daddy is very rich even for Texas. I
am Teresa Rovizzi. My friends call me Tess
and I was there more or less as Ernie's cheering
section.
"It is a rare privilege, Hal, and a high honor,"
Ernie said, "that a man of your caliber and
distinguished record has decided to enter the
political arena in our great city at this time."
40
NEW YORK IS DIFFERENT
"Decided is perhaps too strong a word. I am
exploring," Hal answered, tapping his pipe on
an ash tray in an Ivy League sort of way. He was
in the Treasury Department under Truman and
now works for a Wall Street law firm whose
senior partners were in the McKinley Cabinet.
He is the kind of candidate we would usually
run for Congress in a solid Republican district.
After he loses he is made an Honorary Commis-
sioner and can ride out in the harbor on tug-
boats to receive Royalty. He is not the type the
Boys want hanging around City Hall.
Ernie is not used to shopping around for can-
didates. Generally he gets the word from the
Hall and gives the nod to one of his boys and
has some posters printed up and that is that.
He has had very little practice giving sales talks
to someone like Hal, who is not much of a Demo-
crat and has only lived in New York lor ten
years and is an Episcopalian. Of course White
Protestants are all right. But there is no such
bloc of votes in New York. So when you put one
on your slate you still have all the headaches of
balancing out your ticket.
"I am somewhat staggered by the problems of
this great urban complex," Hal said. "It is a
palace and a jungle where only the rich and the
destitute can survive."
"We are for Middle Income Housing. Also
for Neighborhood Renewal and more State Aid
for Schools," Ernie snapped back.
"But there is vast wealth right here," Hal
went on. "Municipal waste and corruption are
bleeding the city white. Stanley told me at din-
ner last night that we could save a hundred mil-
lion dollars a year if we kicked out all the city job
holders who are not doing any work."
Stanley is Stanley Isaacs. He is the only Re-
publican on the City Council and a very peculiar
person for a Democratic candidate to be having
dinner with.
"We have a very fine Code of Ethics. The
Mayor will not stand for any Conflict of Inter-
est," Ernie said. I forget what payroll he is on
but he does not have any financial problems.
"Tess, get coffee," he ordered.
Marion K. Sanders, who ran for Congress in
Rockland County and is the author of "The Lady
and the Vote," has inhaled the pungent aroma of
New York politics both as a candidate and as a
reporter. She is an editor of this magazine and a
frequent contributor; her articles include the con-
troversial "Social Work: A Profession Chasing Its
Tail" and. "A Proposition for Women."
I called room service. Sometimes my political
career seems like one long coffee break. When
I was a kid in Brooklyn I toted cartons to the
polls every Primary and Election Day. That was
before 1933 when we got a Fusion Administra-
tion, which is a Nonpartisan Coalition of Better
Elements who do not want to stay in politics too
long. For the next twelve years Mayor La
Guardia did not need my Daddy's services to
inspect holes made in our streets by the Con-
solidated Edison Company. Daddy took a job
at the A & P which left him very little time for
his work as Precinct Captain. I dug into the old
schoolbooks and got myself admitted to Hunter
College. Brooklyn people are very patriotic, so
Daddy did not like the idea of a college in Man-
hattan. However, he no longer had any jobs to
give out even to his own daughter, so he said
okay, maybe it would be a broadening experi-
ence. It was. At Hunter, many of the faculty
had gone to Barnard or even Vassar. That is how
I became bilingual and can speak both Park
Avenue and Flatbush, which is very handy in
politics. The boys use me as a kind of Simul-
taneous Translator w^th volunteers in campaigns.
"We gotta let them know you're in this race,
Hal," Ernie said. "We need a good catchy
slogan."
"To project the right image," I added.
"Something direct and hard-hitting," Hal pro-
posed. "Clean out the Grafters— Clean up the
City. We used that idea in Philadelphia the
first time Clark and Dilworth ran."
"This," said Ernie sourly, "ain't Philadelphia."
TH E Dinsmores live in a duplex with a
gorgeous view of the East River but his
family are what is called Main Line. So he keeps
forgetting that Clark and Dilworth ran against
the Entrenched Republican Machine. We are
the Big Bad Ins with a two-term Mayor who is
called honest but weak by his best friends.
Bob Wagner does not like to slap people
down. So he gets pushed around. By Carmine
DeSapio, the leader of Tammany Hall. By Slate
Investigating Commissions. By beatniks ^vho
want to folk-sing in Washington Square Park.
By Robert Moses, who has been Commissioner
of almost everything including housing which he
is not very good at. Wagner believes in letting
things blow over, only instead they seem to
blow up.
However we want him to run lor a third term.
He is a New York sort of Mayor and as Joe
Sharkey, the Leader of Brooklyn put it, "You
can't beat something with nothing." Nothing is
BY MARION K. SANDERS
41
what you have if you cannot retool an incum-
bent in this City. Other places seem to be full of
Distinguished Democrats who could run for
Mayor. But our New York Congressmen and
other officeholders are mostly from safe districts
and do not need to be famous to be elected. The
only Democrats who get their faces in the papers
very much are Insurgents. But
all of them want to run for every-
thing or nothing and cannot
agree on candidates. Maybe they
will fall for a NeAv Face like
Hal's. That is what we hope will
happen at our Campaign KickofI
next week, a Ladies' Luncheon.
"I have been thinking about
the luncheon," Hal said. "I will
pay tribute to the many ethnic
groups that have contributed so
much to the culture and progress
of this great heterogeneous
metropolis."
"He will work with All Ele-
ments in our Party," I inter-
preted.
"Good," Ernie said. "Be sure
Mrs. O'Houlihan gets to take a
bow." Her husband is the Leader of the Dennis
P. O'Houlihan Club on the Upper East Side.
"Why build up that old hack?" Hal demanded.
"I hear their club didn't move a muscle for
Stevenson or Kennedy."
"Dennie could hurt us bad," Ernie said. "Lots
of Irish in that district."
"She is a nice old biddy," I added soothingly.
Hal was staring out of the window at the cars
and taxis backed up bumper to bumper on
Madison Avenue. The sidewalk was blocked
with the scaffolding of a new office building.
"Traffic and real estate speculators are stran-
gling this city," he said. "I shall make a blister-
ing statement on the transportation mess and
urban planning."
"Transit is always a good issue," Ernie an-
swered, "if you promise not to raise the subway
fare. But you better lay off real estate. The
contractors take whole tables at County
Dinners."
"Let's go over the luncheon Dais," I suggested.
"The seating plan is more important than the
speeches."
Carol Dinsmore perked up. A luncheon was
something she could really come to grips with.
I could see she was starting to worry about
whether to wear a hat and if so should it be
a Jackie pillbox or something more Neiman-
Marcus. "Wear the flowered one," I told her,
"and that divine white raw-silk sheath."
"But it's so sooty here," she protested in
her weird Texas drawl which I have not quite
tuned in on yet.
"Don't forget Nc\\' York is a Summer Festival,"
I said. Someone dreamed up this corny slogan to
attract visitors. If you have ever
tried to get into Schrafft's for
hnich or even 21, you know that
we need a slogan to keep people
away. Sometimes I wonder, if
New York is so terrible, why
does everybody want to come
here?
"Will Mrs. Roosevelt be
there?" Carol chirped. "I sure
would be thrilled to meet her."
"You will sit right next to
her," I promised. Of course I
was not absolutely sure because
right now you cannot tell which
Democrats are speaking to each
other. At a time like this a
Ladies' Luncheon is very help-
ful. No matter how they feel
about Cuba or taxes or remedial
reading, all women like to doll up and go to the
Park Lane. Mrs. R. is not the dressy type but she
is very strong for Women in Politics. Also you are
working with symbols instead of the real thing,
so— as the psychiatrists say— tensions are lower.
For instance Mrs. R. would not want to shake
hands this summer with Mr. DeSapio or Mr.
Sharkey. But she would not mind sipping a
glass of sherry with their wives, who are very
ladylike and never discuss politics. Ladies do
not listen too much to the speeches at luncheons
but they all know who is sitting on the Dais
and tell their husbands. So I had to get the Dais
problem settled. I slajiped my yellow pad on the
coffee table and Carol got all ready to start writing
place cards. Only I had not yet put down any
names, just a check list like this:
3 Reverends
Party Brass
Money Bags
Organization— Regular
Organization- Reform
Organization Insurgents
Insurgent Insurgents
Harlem
Mrs. R.
Dolly Schiff
"The Father was from St. Patrick's last year,"
Ernie said. "So we will have one of those Italian
42 NEW YORK IS DIFFERENT
priests from your parish, Tess. And an Irish
tenor can do the National Anthem."
I wrote down some names while Hal looked
over my shoulder studying my notes as if they
were the Dead Sea Scrolls.
"This intra-party struggle is very perplexing,"
he said. "I need to get the feel at the grass roots.
Could I meet some of the rank and file at your
club, Ernie?"
"Why sure," Ernie said. "Tuesday is Club
Night. We are very informal."
ERNIE runs what is called an Old Line
Club. It is mostly a place to play poker and
pinochle. Tuesdays the leader is there to see
people who have problems about jobs or con-
tracts or court cases.
"I would love to come too. May I?" Carol
asked. "I want to be real active in politics when
Hal is running."
Ernie scowled. Women do not go to Old Line
Clubs except maybe a cleaning lady with a
large family of voting age and relaxed ideas
about dust and cigar butts.
"The Lexington Club is much more interest-
ing," I suggested. "They go in for issues and
women. Also they are always for Stevenson no
matter who is running, so you will learn all about
the UN."
The Lexingtons believe in Party democracy
and other Reform ideas. In 1954 their leaders
won a primary so now they have a vote in
Tammany Hall which makes them an Organiza-
tion Reform Club. Carmine DeSapio was very
friendly with the Lexingtons until our State
Convention in 1958. Governor Harriman wanted
Tom Finletter to run for U.S. Senate. But De-
Sapio picked District Attorney Frank Hogan.
He lost to the Republican candidate. Senator
Keating. Rockefeller swamped Harriman. In most
other states Democrats won big. Finletter belongs
to the Lexington Club. So do Mrs. Roosevelt
and Senator Lehman. They said we lost because
of the Image of Bossism and DeSapio must go.
"I have many friends in the Lexington Club,"
Hal said. "They have asked me for a donation to
the Committee for Democratic Voters. I would
like to get your slant on that."
I hoped that Ernie would count ten before
answering. Senator Lehman and Mrs. R. and
Finletter started this committee which the papers
call the CDV. They are going to clean up the
Democratic party by getting rid of the Image
of Bossism. They have raised a lot of money
from people who think DeSapio looks like a
fugitive from the Untouchables.
"These self-styled liberals are wrecking our
party," Ernie answered. The way he says "self-
styled" it sounds like perjury.
"DeSapio has to wear dark glasses because
he has eye trouble. Is this a crime? What other
Tammany Leader ever gave lectures at New
York University? And do not forget—" he shook
a finger at Carol and me— "he changed the
name of Co-Leaders to Leaders Female."
Some of the girls got a big charge out of
this. But to me it sounds like a sign in a zoo.
I would be more thrilled if the Leaders-Male
would start ordering their own coffee.
"As I understand it," Hal said, "the battle
against DeSapio has become a rallying point
for Reform. It has brought a surge of new blood
into the Party Organization."
THIS is what happened in 1959, in Man-
hattan. Insurgents popped up in all the
thirty-three districts and ran for leader against
The Image of Bossism. But the Boss— DeSapio—
also put up his own Insurgents to run against
some Regulars— like the Lexingtons— who were
no longer friendly with him. The CDV prom-
ised to help whoever was against the Image of
Bossism. But all this New Blood gave the CDV
a very hard time. For instance, there might be
three Insurgents running against each other in
the 10th A.D. South. Who should get the CDV
endorsement and— more important— money? The
CDV had never heard of most of these people
and was not quite sure where the 10th A.D,
South was. When you are handing out cash and
endorsements you need a Boss. The CDV is
against bosses but they have Senator Lehman
who has been elected to high office. However,
he is quite old and keeps going to Palm Springs.
DeSapio is not old and stays in the Biltmore
most of the time.
"Why is it," Hal asked, "that the Reform
Groups have not yet agreed on a candidate of
their own for Mayor?"
"They have very democratic procedures about
candidates which may take all summer," I ex-
jjlained. "Some of them like Wagner and some
don't but hardly any of them like each other."
The Insurgents who lost in the '59 primary
are now mad at the CDV as well as DeSajiio. So
they are Insurgent Insurgents. Some of them
might even flip for Fusion which only a very
mixed-up Democrat would do in this town.
"1 understand," Hal said, "that there is still
a good possibility of a Fusion Movement. I
hear that the Liberal Republicans and the Lib-
eral Party are sounding out an Independent
BY MARION K. SANDERS
43
Democrat to run for Mayor." He reads the
Herald-Tribune at breakfast, a fiabit we must
break him of.
"Let them yack," Ernie said. "Fusion is just
another name for Republican. The people of
this city know the Republicans will not do
anything for them in the long run."
"But Nelson Rockefeller got a lot of votes
in Harlem, didn't he?" Hal protested.
"Harlem is different," Ernie explained. "There
is Congressman Adam Clayton Powell. Harlem
has not settled down since 1957."
That was when DeSapio tried to purge Powell
who was having income-tax trouble and went
for Eisenhower in '56 after Stevenson talked
moderation, which is a dirty word in Harlem.
Powell is a famous ladies' man and minister
of the Abyssinian Baptist Church. He clobbered
DeSapio's man Earl Brown who is a nice fellow
but not very sexy or holy. Harlem closed ranks
behind Powell and he is the one who now calls
the shots there.
"I have been very impressed with Congress-
man Powell's record in the House this session,"
Hal said. "He is an eloquent spokesman for
Civil Rights."
"Who is against Civil Rights in New York?"
Ernie asked. "But we are also for Partv Dis-
cipline which Mr. Powell is not."
Powell is always cooking up a Harlem Issue.
He did it last year when Borough President
Hulan Jack, who is a Negro, was booted out
after he had a decorating job in his apartment
paid for by a public housing contractor who had
not done any noticeable public housing. The
Borough President's Office is very important be-
cause it has many exempt jobs for people who
do not do well on Civil Service examinations
but are good at getting out the vote. Mayor
Wagner and DeSapio both wanted to pick Mr.
Jack's successor and they have not been at all
chummy since then except at nonpartisan occa-
sions like parades. Powell started yelling discrim-
ination. This was silly because everyone said
the new Borough President must be a Negro,
only DeSapio and Wagner wanted to decide
which one. Powell also said Jack did not have
a fair trial, which was not so, although it is
true that the whole decorating job only cost
$5,000, which is a very low price for a Borough
President.
"We must give Harlem the full treatment
this year," Ernie said.
"I am planning an earthy emotional appeal to
the Negroes and Puerto Ricans," Hal said. "I
could do part of my speech in Spanish."
"That will not be necessary," I told him. "Mrs.
Martinez who will be on the Dais is a co-leader
and has learned to say yes in English. Most
Puerto Rican ladies do not go to the Park
Lane for lunch very much."
"I will not pull any punches about the plight
of our Negro and Puerto Rican citizens," Hal
continued. "I know about the families living in
filthy rat-infested, one-room apartments without
heat or decent plumbing. The miserable seg-
regated schools. The pre-delinquent adolescents
doomed to illiteracy because they cannot speak
English."
"The main thing is to get the Harlem Leader-
ship Team lined up," Ernie said. The Leader-
ship Team is Powell and Ray Jones, who is
called The Fox. They are fighting DeSapio too
but not about Reform. About jobs. They are
Organization Insurgents. "We must take care
of them right this year," Ernie went on. "Maybe
a Commissioner and a couple Judges. Who you
got on the Dais for Harlem, Tess?"
"I met this charming Negro lady at Mari-
etta's," Carol volunteered. "She's Urban League
or YWCA. A Mrs. Hollingshead. Would she do?
"Sarah Hollingshead," said Ernie, whose mem-
ory is perfect. "Fine woman. Had a job with
O'Dwyer. But won't do for the Dais."
"Why not?" Carol asked.
"Too light," Ernie said, "for pictures. To show
up right for Harlem you must be real black."
HA L was pacing around the room in a
very jumpy way. "The many dissident
factions in our Party disturb me," he said. "I
am aware that a candidate for high office must
be a catalyst. He must weld together the warring
factions in a common purpose."
This was a good line even if it was straight
out of V. O. Key's Politics, Parties, and Pressure
Groups or The Federalist Papers, I forget which.
I flashed him the comradely smile of a fellow
pol. sci. major.
"Whaddya mean factions?" Ernie snarled.
Hal was not listening, which is a bad sign. Can-
didates are very hard to handle when they get
carried away by their own eloquence.
"The great challenge as I see it," he went on,
"is to identify the Democratic Party of New York
City with the dynamic forward thrust of the
National Administration."
"He means we should hook into the New
Frontier," I translated freely.
"For the birds," Ernie said. "Do not start new
frontiering around here. You have to be a
Mormon or a Connecticut hillbilly to get a job
44
NEW YORK IS DIFFERENT
i)ui t)l Washington iliese days. Tess, wherc's the
coffee?"
"They charge 25 cents a cup for it here,"
Carol said. "I could run out to the drug store
for a couple of cartons." 1 have noticed that
millionaires are very careful about money, which
is possibly how they got that way in the first
place. Fortunatelv a surlv-looking Avaitcr arrived
and began pushing furniture around to make
room for a king-size table full of coffee urns.
Hal took two lumps and went right back to his
Washington. D.C. pitch.
"I understand the patronage difficulty will
soon be ironed out between the State and Na-
ti(Hial Committees." he said.
"My club is still waiting, ' Ernie said. ".And
we do not intend to settle for an .\ssistant Fed-
eral .\ttorney and other leftover jimk." He
picked up my pad. "Now how about Dollv
Schiff?"
"I will be mighty proud to meet the lady who
jjublishes the only Democratic paper in this
lity," Carol chimed in.
"The Post is not exactly what you ^\•oldd call
Democratic in Texas," Ernie said.
He has not forgotten that Afrs. Schiff switched
from Harriman to Rockefeller two days before
election in 1958. You really cannot tell how
the Post ^\'ill go except that they are always
for Israel. I wished that Hal looked more like
Ben-Gurion.
"Dolly will be on the Dais," I said, "uidess
she is in one of her ^Vorking Press moods. ^Ve
always save two places for her."
Of course she may not come to
the Lmicheon at all. I woidd not be
surprised if she was playing footsie
with Fusion.
"^Vith everybody so mixed up
and mad at each other," Carol
piped up, ■■ho^\• can the Democrats
win this election? I would think
this \\'as a \erv good vear for
Fusion."
It is wrong to figine that a
woman is necessarily a birdbrain
because she is a natural blonde and
talks like Gone -witJi the Wind.
"But they got no candidate,"
Ernie barked. "Only Republicans. To have any
chance they woidd need an Independent Demo-
crat. .\nd I can tell you a Democrat who is that
Independent woidd be dead in this town."
"\Vcll now it just might be." Carol drawled,
"that they cc^iild find the right one." She gave
Hal a fourteen-caral adoring wife look and
rattled on. "I believe I coiUd give you the name
of an Independent Democrat who would make
a really heavenly Fusion Candidate for Mayor."
Her chatter made me very nervous but Ernie
did not aret the message. He \\as lookiin> at his
Avatch. It was nearly one o'clock ami all organi-
zation politicians are very regular in their eating
habits.
"Come on, Hal, ^\•e are meeting some of the
Boys downstairs for lunch." he annoimced. "Tess
you go to the coffee shop with Carol and be
back here at three."
"If you would excuse me," Hal said. "I have
promised to take Carol to lunch. We are going
to the Colony and I hope Tess will join us
because I need some more of the real low-down
on New York."
Of coinse he did not have to ask me twice
though it was too bad I had not had my hair
done. The Colony is so expensive it makes Bilt-
more prices look like the Automat. I am glad
Hal is less thrifty than his wife because a Politi-
cal l^nknown has to pick up a lot of tabs.
"We had a marvelous lujich but Hal did not eat
much. He was realh^woinid up and I must admit
sounded pretty good. He thinks New York is not
verv different from San Francisco or Cleveland or
even New Haven, where he lived while he was col-
lecting degrees from different colleges before go-
ing to hnv school. He says that there can be open
bids for city coiuracts Avithout deals and that you
can build apartments near offices. He thinks you
can get rid of shuns without shoving the people
who live there into worse slums.
He savs a lot of plavgrounds would
be cheaper than a ne\\' ball park
and then children would have a
jjlace to play without moving to
\\'estchester. He also thinks that
if you get rid of graft and inef-
ficiency in City Hall there will be
plenty of money for new schools
and hos}iitals and if there are no
payoffs business will be so good the
city will collect more taxes.
Ernie says I Avas carried away
because I am not used to having
two Gibsons and Sparkling Rin^-
gimdy for linich. But I still think
Hal woidd make a great candidate even for
Mayor. Only he does not miderstand why
Fusion is a bad idea. In fact he seems to like it.
This is very upsetting because campaigning for
him would certainly be a change of jjace for
me. But a Brooklyn girl has to dra^v the line
somewhere.
Hnrftcr's MogtizinCj July 1961
MARY McCarthy
cr
REALISM
11
in the American Theatre
How good are our "leading playwrights" ?
One of America's sharpest critical minds probes
the limitations of their "gloomy doctrine."
WH O are the American realist play-
wrights? Is there, as is assumed abroad,
a school of realists in the American theatre or is
this notion a critical figment?
The question is legitimate; but lor purposes
of discussion, I am going to take for granted
that there is such a group, if not a school, and
name its members: Arthur Miller, Tennessee
Williams, William Inge, Paddy Chayefsky, the
Elmer Rice of Street Scene. Behind them, casting
them in the shadow, stands the great figure of
O'Neill, and opposite them, making them seem
more homogeneous, are writers like George
Kelly, Wilder, Odets, Saroyan. Their counter-
parts in the novel are Dreiser, Sherwood Ander-
son, James T. Farrell, the early Thomas Wolfe
—which illustrates, by the way, the backwardness
of the theatre in comparison with the novel. The
theatre seems to be chronically twenty years
behind, regardless of realism, as the relation of
Beckett to Joyce, for example, shows.
The theatre feeds on the novel; never vice
versa: think of the hundreds of dramatizations
of novels, and then try to think of a book that
was "novelized" from a play. There is not even
a word for it. The only actual case I can call
to mind is The Other House by Henry James—
a minor novel he salvaged from a play of his
own that failed. To return to the main subject,
one characteristic of American realism in the
theatre is that none of its practitioners currently
wants to call himself a realist. Tennessee Wil-
liams is known to his admirers as a "poetic
realist," while Arthur Miller declares that he
is an exponent of the "social play" and identifies
himself with the Greek playwrights, whom he
describes as social playwrights also. This de-
lusion was dramatized, if that is the word, in
A View from the Bridge.
The fact that not one of these playwrights
cares to be regarded as a realist without some
qualifying or mitigating adjective attached to
the term invites a definition of realism. What
does it mean in common parlance? I have looked
the word "realist" up in the Oxford English Dic-
tionary. Here is what they say: ". . . In reference
to art and literature sometimes used as a term
of commendation, when precision and vividness
of detail are regarded as a merit, and sometimes
unfavorably contrasted with idealized descrip-
tion or representation. In recent use it has often
been used with the implication that the details
are of an unpleasant or sordid character." This
strikes me as a very fair account of the historical
fate of the notion of realism, but I shall try to
particularize a little, in the hope of finding out
why and how this happened. And I shall not
be condemning realism but only noting what
people seem to think it is.
When we say that a novel or a play is real-
istic, we mean, certainly, that it gives a picture
of ordinary life. Its characters will be drawn
from the middle class, the lower middle class,
occasionally the working class. You cannot write
realistic drama about upper-class life; at least,
no one ever has. Aristocracy does not lend itself
to realistic treatment, but to one or another
kind of stylization: romantic drama, romantic
comedy, comedy of manners, satire, tragedy. This
fact in itself is a realistic criticism of the aris-
tocratic idea, which cannot afford, apparently,
to live in the glass house of the realistic stage.
Kings and noble men, said Aristotle, are the pro-
tagonists of tragedy— not women or slaves. The
46
"REALISM" IN THE THEATRE
same is true of nobility of character or intellect.
The exceptional man, whether he be Oedipus
or King Lear or one of the romantic revolution-
ary heroes of Hugo or Musset, is fitted to be
the protagonist of a tragedy, but just this tragic
fitness disqualifies him from taking a leading
role in a realist drama. Such figures as Othello
or Hernani can never be the subject of realistic
treatment, unless it is with the object of deflating
them, showing how ordinary— petty or squalid—
they are. But then the hero is no longer Othello
but an impostor posing as Othello. Cut down
to size, he is just like everybody else but worse,
because he is a fraud into the bargain.
This abrupt foreshortening is why realistic
treatment of upper-class life always takes the
harsh plunge into satire. No man is a hero to
his valet, and Beaumarchais' Figaro is the spokes-
man of social satire— not of realism; his per-
sonal and private realism turns his master into
a clown. Realism deals with ordinary men and
women or, in extreme forms, with sub-ordinary
men, men on the level of beasts or of blind con-
ditioned reflexes (for example, Tlic Hairy Ape).
This tendency is usually identified with natural-
ism, but I am regarding naturalism as simply
a variety of realism.
Realism, historically, is associated with two
relatively modern inventions, i.e., with journal-
ism and with photography. "Photographic real-
ism" is a pejorative term, and enemies of realis-
tic literature often dismissed it as "no more
than journalism," implying that journalism was
a sordid, seamy affair— a daily photographic close-
up, as it were, of the clogged pores of society.
The author as sheer observer likened himself
to a camera (Dos Passos, Christopher Isherwood,
Wright Morris), and insofar as the realistic novel
was vowed to be a reflector of ordinary life,
the newspapers inevitably became a prime source
of material. In America, in the early part of
this century, the realistic novel was a partner of
Mary McCarthy's fiction and criticism have
kept her in the intellectual vanguard in this country
since her first novel, "The Company She Keeps" ivas
published in 1942. She has written ivith vigor and
distinction on subjects as diverse as "Memories of a
Catholic Girlhood" (in Seattle), "The Groves of
Academe" fin the Eastern U.S.A.), and "The Stones
of Florence." Her theatrical criticism was collected
in "Sights and Spectacles." Her new book of essays
(including this one) will be called "On the Con-
trary" and will be published by Farrar, Straus and
Cudahy in September. Married to James West, the
U.S. cultural attache, she now lives in Warsaw,
what was callcil "nuick-raking" journalism, anc
both were linkctl with populism and crusade;'
for political reform.
Hence, perhaps, in part, the imsavory associ
ations in common speech of the word "realistic,"
even when applied in nonliterary contexts.
Take the phrase "a realistic decision." If some-|
one tells you he is going to make "a realistic
decision," )ou immediately understand that he |
has resolved to do something bad. The same
with "Realpolidk." A "realistic politics" is a
euphemism for a politics of harsh opportunism;
if you hear someone say that it is time for a
government to follow a realistic line, you can
interpret this as meaning that it is time for
principles to be abandoned.
WHiatever the field, whenever you hear that a
subject is to be treated "realistically," you ex-
pect that its unpleasant aspects are to be brought
forward. So it is with the play and the novel.
A delicate play like Turgenev's A Month in the
Coinitry, though perfectly truthful to life, seems
deficient in realism in comparison with the
stronger medicine of Gorki's The Lower Depths.
This is true of Turgenev's novels as well and
of such English writers as Mrs. Gaskell. And
of the jDeaceful parts of War and Peace. Ordi-
nary life treated in its uneventful aspects tends
to turn into an idyl. We think of Turgenev and
Mrs. Gaskell almost as pastoral writers, despite
the fact that their faithful sketches have nothing
in common with the artificial convention of the
trtie pastoral. We suspect that there is some-
thing Arcadian here— something "unrealistic."
AN AFFINITY FOR CRIME
IF realism deals Avith the ordinary man em-
bedded in ordinary life, which for the most
part is uneventftd, what then is the criterion
that makes us forget Tiugenev or Mrs. Gaskell
Avhen we name off the realists? I think it is this:
what we call realism, and particularly dramatic
realism, tends to single out the ordinary man at
the moment he might get into ihe newspaper.
The criterion, in other words, is draAvn from
journalism. The ordinary man must become
"news" before he qualifies to be the protagonist
of a realistic play or novel. The exceptional man
is news at all times, but how can the ordinary
man get into the paper? By committing a crime.
Or, more rarely, by getting inxolved in a spec-
tacular accident. Since accidents, in general,
are barred from the drama, this leaves crime-
murder oi suicide ox embe/zlement. And we
find that the protagonists of realistic drama.
BY MARY McCarthy
47
by and large, are the protagonists of newspaper
stories— "little men" who have shot their wives
or killed themselves in the garage or gone to
jail for fraud or embezzlement.
Now drama has always had an affinity for
crime— long before realism was known, Oedipus
and Clytemnestra and Macbeth and Othello were
famous for their deeds of blood. But the crimes
of tragedy are the crimes of heroes, while the
crimes of realistic drama are the crimes of the
nondescript person, the crimes that are, in a
sense, all alike. The individual in the realistic
drama is regarded as a cog or a statistic; he
commits the uniform crime that sociologically
he might be expected to commit. That is, sup-
posing that 1,031 bookkeepers in New York
State are destined annually to falsify the firm's ac-
counts, 207 policemen to shoot their wives, and
1,115 householders to do away with themselves
in the garage, each individual bookkeeper, cop,
and householder has been holding a ticket in
this statistical lottery— like the fourteen Athenian
youths and maidens sent off yearly to the Mino-
taur's labyrinth— and he acquires interest for the
realist theatre only when his "number" comes up.
To put it simply, Frank, the stagehand in
Street Scene, commits his crime— wife murder-
without having the moral freedom to choose as
an individual to commit it, just as Willy Loman
in Death of a Salesman commits suicide— under
sociological pressure. The hero of tragedy, on
the contrary, is a morally free being who iden-
tifies himself with his crime, and this is true
even where he is fated, like Oedipus, to commit
it and can be said to have no personal choice
in the matter. Oedipus both rejects and accepts
his deeds, embraces them in free will at last as
liis. It is the same with Othello or Hamlet.
The distinction will be clear if you ask your-
self what tragedy of Shakespeare is closest to the
realistic theatre. The answer, surely, is Macbeth.
And why? Because of Lady Macbeth. Macbeth
really doesn't choose to murder the sleeping
Duncan; Lady Macbeth chooses for him; he is
like a middle-class husband, nagged on by his
ambitious wife, the way the second vice presi-
dent of a bank is nagged on by his Mrs. Macbeth,
who wants him to become first vice president.
The end of the tragedy, however, reverses all
this; Macbeth becomes a hero only late in the
drama, when he pushes Lady Macbeth aside
and takes all his deeds on himself. Paradoxically,
the conspicuous tragic hero is never free not
to do his deed; he cannot escape it, as Hamlet
found. But the mute hero or protagonist of a
realistic play is always free, at least seemingly,
not to emerge from obscurity and get his picture
in the paper. There is always the chance that
not he but some other nondescript bookkeeper
or policeman will answer the statistical call.
The heroes of realistic plays are clerks, book-
keepers, policemen, housewives, salesmen, school-
teachers, small and middling business men. They
commit crimes but they cannot be professional
criminals (unlike the heroes of Genet or the char-
acters in The Beggar's Opera), for professional
criminals, like kings and noble men, are a race
apart.
THE RUBBER PLANT
TH E settings of realistic plays are offices,
drab dining-rooms or living-rooms, or the
back yard, which might be defined as a place
where some grass has once been planted and
failed to grow. The back yard is a favorite locus
for American realist plays, but no realist play
takes place in a garden.
Nature is excluded from the realist play, as
it has been from the realistic novel. The presence
of nature in Turgenev (and in Chekhov) denotes,
as I have suggested, a pastoral intrusion. If a
realist play does not take place in the back yard,
where nature has been eroded by clothes poles,
garbage cans, bottled-gas tanks, and so on, it
takes place indoors, where the only plant, gen-
erally, is a rubber plant. Even with Ibsen, the
action is confined to a room or pair of rooms
until the late plays like The Lady from the Sea,
The Master Builder, John Gabriel Borkman,
when the realistic style has been abandoned for
symbolism and the doors are swung open to the
garden, mountains, the sea. Ibsen, however, is an
exception to the general rule that the indoor
scene must be unattractive; his middle-class
Scandinavians own some handsome furniture;
Nora's house, like any doll's house, must have
been charmingly appointed.
But Ibsen is an exception to another rule
that seems to govern realistic drama (and the
novel too, for that matter)— the rule that it must
not be well written. (Thanks to William Archer's
wooden translations, his work now falls into
line in English.) This rule in America has the
force, almost, of a law, one of those iron laws
that work from within necessity itself, appar-
ently, and without conscious human aid. Our
American realists do not try to write badly.
Many, like Arthur Miller, strive to write "well,"
but like Dreiser in the novels, they are cursed
with inarticulateness. They "grope." They are,
as O'Neill said of himself, "fogbound."
48
"REALISM" IN THE THEATRE
1 he heroes are petty or colorless; the settings
are drab; the language is lame. Thus the ugli-
ness of the torm is complete. I am not say-
ing this as a criticism, only observing that when
a play or a novel fails to meet these norms, we
cease to think of it as realistic. Flaubert, known
to be a "stylist," ceases to count for us as a realist,
and even in the last century, Matthew Arnold,
hailing Tolstoy as a realist, was blinded by cat-
egorical thinking— with perhaps a little help from
the translations— into calling his novels raw "slices
of life," sprawling, formless, and so on. But it is
these cliches, in the long run, that have won out.
The realistic novel today is more like what
Arnold thought Tolstoy was than it is like
Tolstoy or any of the early realists.
This question of the beauty of form also
touches the actor. An actor formerly was sup-
posed to be a good-looking man, with a hand-
some figure, beautiful movements, and a noble
diction. These attributes are no longer necessary
for a stage career; indeed, in America they are
a pcjsitive handicap. A good-looking young man
who moves well and speaks well is becoming
almost unemployable in American "legit" the-
atre; his best hope today is to look for work in
musical comedy. Or posing for advertisements.
On the English stage, where realism until re-
cently never got a foothold, the good-looking
actor still rules the roost, but the English actor
cannot j:)lay American realist parts, while the
American actor cannot play Shakespeare or Shaw.
A pretty girl in America may still hope to be an
actress, though even here there are signs of a
change: the heroine of O'Neill's late play, A
Moon for the Misbegotten, was a freckled giant-
ess five feet eleven inches tall and weighing
180 pounds.
Eisenstein and the Italian neo-realists used peo-
ple off the street for actors— a logical inference
from premises which, being egalitarian and
documentary, are essentially hostile to profes-
sional elites, including Cossacks, Swiss Guards,
and actors. The professional actor in his grease
paint is the antithesis of the pallid man on the
street. But film and stage realism are not so
democratic in their principles as may at first
appear. To begin with, the director and a small
corps of professionals— electricians and camera-
men—assume absolute power over the masses,
i.e., over the untrained actors picked from the
crowd; no resistance is encountered, as it would
be with professional actors, in molding the hu-
man material to the director-dictator's will. And
even with stars and all-professional casts, the
same tendency is found in the modon realist
or neo-rcalist directt^r. Hence the whispered
stories of stars deliberately broken by a direc-
tor: James Dean and Brigitte Bardot. Similar
stories of brain-washing are heard backstage.
This is not surprising if realism, as we now know
it, rejects as nonaverage whatever is noble, beau-
tiful, or seemly, whatever is capable of "ges-
ture," whatever in fact is free.
THE GLOOMY DOCTRINE
EVERYTHING I have been saying up
till now can be summed up in a sentence.
Realism is a depreciation of the real. It is a
gloomy puritan doctrine that has flourished
chiefly in puritan countries— America, Ireland,
Scandinavia, northern France, nonconformist
England— chilly, chilblained countries, where the
daily world is ugly and everything is done to
keep it so, as if as a punishment for sin. The
doctrine is spreading with industrialization,
the growth of ugly cities, and the erosion of
nature. It came late to the English stage, long
after it had appeared in the novel, because those
puritan elements witb which it is naturally allied
have, up until now, considered the theatre to
be wicked.
At the same time, in defense of realism, it
must be said that its great enemy has been just
that puritan life whose gray color it has taken.
The original realists— Ibsen in the theatre, Flau-
bert in the novel— regarded themselves as
"pagans," in opposition to their puritan con-
temporaries, and adhered to a religion of beauty
or Nature; they dreamed of freedom and hedon-
istic license (Flaubert), and exalted the auton-
omy of the individual will (Ibsen). Much of
this "paganism" is still found in O'Casey and
in the early O'Neill, a curdled puritan of Irish-
American stock.
The original realists were half Dionysian
aesthetes ("the vine-leaves in his hair"), and
their heroes and heroines were usually rebels,
protesting the drabness and meanness of the
common life. Ibsen's characters complain that
they are "stifling"; in the airless hypocrisy of
the puritan middle-class parlor, people were
being j)oisoned by the dead gas of lies. Hypocrisy
is the cardinal sin of the middle class, and the
exposure of a lie is at the center of all Ibsen's
plots. The strength and passion of realism is its
resolve to tell the whole truth; this explains
why the realist in his indictment of society
avoids the old method of satire with its deligliied
exaggeration.
The realist drama at its Iiighest is an im-
BY MARY McCarthy
49
placable expose. Ibsen rips oft the curtain and
shows his audiences to themselves, and there is
something inescapable in the manner of the con-
frontation, like a case slowly being built. The
pillars of society who sit in the best seats are, bit
by bit, informed that they are rotten and that
the commerce they live on is a commerce of
"coffin ships." The action of the Ibsen stage
is too close for comfort to the lives of the audi-
ence; only the invisible "fourth wall" divides
them. "This is the way we live now!" Moral
examination, self-examination are practiced as
a duty, a Protestant stock-taking, in the realist
mission hall.
IN THE COFFIN,
THE CORPSE
FO R this, it is essential that the audience
accept the picture as true; it cannot be per-
mitted to feel that it is watching something
"made up" or embellished. Hence the stripping
down of the form and the elimination of effects
that might be recognized as literary. For the
first time, too, in the realist drama, the acces-
sories of the action are described at length by
the playwright. The details must strike home and
convince. The audience must be able to place
the furniture, the carpets, the ornaments, the
napery and glassware as "just what these people
would have."
This accounts for the importance of the stage
set. Many critics who scornfully dismiss the
'boxlike set" of the realistic drama, with its care-
ful disposition of furniture, do not understand
its function. This box is the box or "coffin" of
average middle-class life opened at one end to
reveal the corpse within, looking, as all em-
balmed corpses are said to do, "just as if it were
alive." Inside the realist drama, whenever it is
genuine and serious, there is a kind of double
illusion, a false bottom: everything appears to be
lifelike but this appearance of life is death. The
stage set remains a central element in all true
realism; it cannot be replaced by scrim or plat-
forms.
In A Long Day's Journey into Night, surely
the greatest realist drama since Ibsen, the
family living-room, with its central overhead
lighting fixture is as solid and eternal as oak
and as sad as wicker, and O'Neill in the text
tells the stage designer what books must be in the
glassed-in bookcase on the left and what books
in the other by the entrance.
The tenement of Rice's Street Scene (in the
opera version) was a magnificent piece of char-
acterization; so was the Bronx living-room of
Odets' Aioake and Sing—hh sole (and successful)
experiment with realism. I can still see the bowl
of fruit on the table, slightly to the left of stage
center, and hear the Jewish mother interrupting
whoever happened to be talking, to say, "Have
a piece of fruit." That bowl of fruit, which ivas
the Jewish Bronx, remains more memorable as
a character than many of the people in the
drama. This gift of characterization through
props and stage set is shared by Paddy Chayefsky
in Middle of the Night and by William Inge in
Come Back, Little Sheba, where an unseen prop
or accessory, the housewife's terrible frowsty
little dog, is the master stroke of realist illusion-
ism and, more than that, a kind of ghostly totem.
All these plays, incidentally, are stories of death-
in-life.
This urgent correspondence with a familiar
reality, down to the last circumstantial detail,
is what makes realism so gripping, like a trial
in court. The dramatist is witnessing or testify-
ing, on an oath never sworn before in a work
of art, not to leave out anything and to tell the
truth to the best of his ability. And yet the
realistic dramatist, beginning with Ibsen, is
aware of a missing element. The realist mode
seems to generate a dissatisfaction with itself,
even in the greatest masters: Tolstoy, for ex-
ample, came to feel that his novels, up to Resur-
rection, were inconsequential, trifling; the vital
truth had been left out. In short, as a novelist,
he began to feel like a hypocrite. This dissatisfac-
tion with realism was evidently suffered also by
Ibsen; halfway through his realist period, you see
him start to look for another dimension. Hardly
had he discovered or invented the new dramatic
mode than he showed signs of being cramped
by it; he experienced, if his plays are an index,
that same sense of confinement, of being stifled,
within the walls of realism that his characters
experience within the walls of middle-class life.
Something was missing: air.
This is already plain in The Wild Duck, a
strange piece of autocriticism and probably his
finest play; chafing, restless, mordant, he is search-
ing for something else, for a poetic element,
which he represents, finally, in the wild duck
itself, a dramatic symbol for that cherished wild
freedom that neither Ibsen nor his characters
can maintain, without harming it, in a shut-in
space. But to resort to symbols to make good
the missing element becomes a kind of forcing,
like trying to raise a wild bird in an attic, and
the strain of this is felt in Rosmersholm, where
symbols play a larger part and are charged with
50
REALISM" IN THE THEATRE
a more oppressive weight of meaning. In TJie
Lady from the Sea, The Master Builder, and
other late plays, the symbols have broken through
the thin fence or framework of realism; poetry
has spread its crippled wings, but the price has
been heavy.
The whole history of dramatic realism is en-
capsulated in Ibsen: first, the renunciation of
verse and of historical and philosophical subjects
in the interests of prose and the present time;
then the dissatisfaction and the attempt to re-
store the lost element through a recourse to
symbols; then, or at the same time, a forcing of
the action of the climaxes to heighten the drama;
finally, the renunciation of realism in favor of a
mixed mode or hodgepodge. The reaching for
tragedy at the climaxes is evident in Hedda
Gabler and still more so in Rosmersholm , where,
to me at any rate, that climactic shriek, "To the
mill race!" is absurdly like a bad film.
Many of Ibsen's big moments, even as early
as A Doll's House, strike me as false and gran-
diose, that is, precisely, as stagy. Nor is it only in
the context of realism that they apjjear so. It is
not just that one objects that people do not
act or talk like that— which is Tolstoy's criticism
of King Lear on the heath. If you compare the
mill-race scene in Rosmersholm with the climax
of a Shakespearean tragedy, you will see that the
Shakespearean heroes are far less histrionic, more
natural and ordinary; there is always a stillness
at the center of the Shakespearean storm. It is
as if the realist, in reaching for tragedy, were
punished for his hubris by a ludicrous fall into
bathos. Tragedy is impossible by definition in
the quotidian realist mode, since (quite aside
from the question of the hero) tragedy is the ex-
ceptional action one of whose signs is beauty.
o'neill's long quest
IN America the desire to supply the missing
element (usually identified as poetry or
"beauty") seems to grow stronger and stronger
exactly in proportion to the author's awkward-
ness with language. The less a playwright can
write prose, the more he wishes to write poetry
and to raise his plays by their bootstraps to a
higher realm. You find these applications of
"beauty" in Arthur Miller and Tennessee Wil-
liams; they stand out like rouge on a pitted
complexion; it is as though the author first
wrote the play naturalistically and then gave it a
beauty treatment or face lift.
Before them, O'Neill, who was too honest and
too philosophically inclined to be satisfied by a
surface solution, kept looking methodically for
a way of representing the missing element in
dramas that would still be realistic at the core.
He experimented with masks {Tlie Great God
Brown), with the aside and the soliloquy (Strange
Interlude), with a story and pattern borrowed
from the Greek classic drama (Mourning Be-
comes Electro).
In other words, he imported into the American
home or farm the machinery of tragedy. But his
purpose was always a greater realism. His use
of the aside, for example, was very different
from the traditional use of the aside (a kind
of nudge to the audience, usually on the part
of the villain, to let them in on his true intent
or motive); in Strange Interlude O'Neill was
trying, through the aside, to make available to
the realistic drama the discoveries of modern
psychology, to represent on the stage the un-
conscious selves of his characters, at cross purposes
with their conscious selves but just as real if
not realer, at least according to the psychoan-
alysts.
He was trying, in short, to give a more com-
j)lete picture of ordinary people in their daily
lives. It was the same with his use of masks in
TJie Great God Broxvn; he was appropriating
the mask of Athenian drama, a ritual means of
putting a distance between the human actor
and the audience, to bring his own audience
closer to the inner humanity of his character—
the man behind the mask of conformity. The fact
that these devices were clumsy is beside the
point. O'Neill's sincerity usually involved him
in clumsiness. In the end, he came back to the
straight realism of his beginnings: The Long
Voyage Home, the title of his young Caribbean
series, could also be the title of the great play
of his old age: A Long Day's Journey into Night.
He has sailed beyond the horizon and back into
port; the circle is complete. In this late play,
the quest for the missing element, as such, is
renounced; poetry is held to be finally unattain-
able by the author.
"I couldn't touch what I tried to tell you just
now," says the character who is supposed to be
the young O'Neill. "I just stammered. That's the
best I'll ever do. I mean, if I live. Well, it will
be faithful realism, at least. Stammering is the
native eloquence of us fog people."
In this brave acknowledgment or advance ac-
ceptance of failure, there is something very
moving. Moreover, the acceptance of defeat was
in fact the signal of a victory. A Long Day's
Journey into Night, sheer dogged prose from be-
ginning to end, achieves in fact a peculiar jjoeti y,
and the relentless amassing of particulars takes
on, eventually, some of the crushing force of in-
exorable logic that we find in Racine or in a
Greek play. The weight of circumstance itself
becomes a fate or Nemesis. This is the closest,
probably, that realism can get to tragedy.
The "stammering" of O'Neill was what made
his later plays so long, and the stammering,
which irritated some audiences, impatient for
the next syllable to fall, was a sign of the author's
agonized determination to be truthful. If O'Neill
succeeded, at last, in deepening the character
of his realism, it was because the missing element
he strove to represent was not, in the end,
"poetry" or "beauty" or "philosophy" (though
he sometimes seems to have felt that it was) but
simply meaning— the total significance of an ac-
tion. What he came to conclude, rather wearily,
in his last plays was that the total significance of
an action lay in the accumulated minutiae of that
action and could not be abstracted from it, at
least not by him. There was no truth or meaning
beyond the event itself; anything more (or less)
would be a lie. This pun or tautology, this con-
undrum, committed him to a cycle of repetition,
and memory, the mother of the Muses, became
his only muse.
TOWARD THE UNIVERSAL
TH E younger American playwrights— Mil-
ler, Williams, Inge, Chayefsky— now all
middle-aged, are pledged, like O'Neill, to veri-
similitude. They purport to offer a "slice of life"
—in Tennessee Williams' case a rich, spicy slab
of Southern fruit cake, but still a slice of life.
The locus of their plays is the American porch
or back yard or living-room or parlor or bus
station, presented as typical, authentic as home-
fried potatoes or "real Vermont maple syrup."
This authenticity may be regional, as with Wil-
liams and Chayefsky (a New Orleans slum, a
Long Island synagogue), or it may claim to be as
broad as the nation, as with Arthur Miller, or
somewhere rather central, in between the two,
as with William Inge. But in any case the prom-
ise of these playwrights is to show an ordinary
home, an ordinary group of bus passengers, a
typical manufacturer, and so on, and the drama-
tis personae tend to resemble a small-town, non-
blue-ribbon jury: housewife, lawyer, salesman,
chiropractor, working man, schoolteacher. . . .
Though Tennessee Williams' characters are
more exotic, they too are offered as samples to the
audience's somewhat voyeuristic eye; when
Williams' film. Baby Doll, was attacked by
BY MARY McCarthy si
Cardinal Spellman, the director (Elia Kazan)
defended it on the grounds that it was true to
the life that he and Williams had observed, on
location, in Mississippi. If the people in Ten-
nessee Williams' plays were regarded as products
of the author's imagination, his plays would lose
all their interest. /There is always a point in any
one of Williams' dramas where recognition gives
way to a feeling of shocked incredulity; this
shock technique is the source of his sensational
popularity. But the audience would not be elec-
trified il it had not been persuaded earlier that it
was witnessing something the author vouched for
as a common, ordinary occurrence in the Amer-
ican South.
Unlike the other playwrights, who make a
journalistic claim to neutral recording, Arthur
Miller admittedly has a message. His first Broad-
way success. All My Sons,, was a social indictment
taken, almost directly, from Ibsen's Pillars of
Society. The coffin ships, rotten, unseaworthy
vessels calked over to give an appearance of
soundness, became defective airplanes sold to the
government by a corner-cutting manufacturer
during the second world war; like the coffin ships,
the airplanes are a symbol of the inner rottenness
of bourgeois society, and the sins of the lather
are visited on the son, a pilot who cracks up in
the Pacific theatre (in Ibsen, the ship-owner's
boy is saved at the last minute from sailing on
The Indian Girl).
The insistence of this symbol and the vague-
ness or absence of concrete detail express Miller's
impatience with the particular and his feeling
that his play ought to say "more" than it ap-
pears to be saying. Ibsen, even in his later,
symbolic works, was always specific about the
where, when, and how of his histories, but Miller
has always regarded the specific as trivial and has
sought, from the very outset, a hollow, reverber-
ant universality. The reluctance to awaken a
specific recognition, for fear that a larger mean-
ing might go unrecognized by the public, grew
on Miller with Death of a Salesman— sl strong
and original conception that was enfeebled by
its creator's insistence on universality and by a
too-hortatory excitement, i.e., an eagerness to
preach, which is really another form of the same
thing. Miller was bent on making his Salesman
(as he calls him) a parable of Everyman, exactly
as in a clergyman's sermon, so that the drama
has only the quality— and something of the
canting tone— of an illustrative moral example.
The thirst for universality becomes even more
imperious in A View from the Bridge, where the
account of a waterfront killing that Miller read
52
"REALISM" IN THE THEATRE
in a newspaper is accessorized with Greek archi-
tecture, "archetypes," and, from time to time,
intoned passages of verse, and Miller announces
in a preface that he is not interested in his hero's
"psychology." Miller does not understand that
you cannot turn a newspaper item about Italian
longshoremen and illegal immigration into a
Greek play by adding a chorus and the pediment
of a temple. Throughout Miller's long practice
as a realist, there is not only a naive searching
for another dimension but an evident hatred of
and contempt for reality— as not good enough to
make plays out of.
It is natixral, therefore, that he should never
have had any interest in how people talk; his
characters all talk the same way— somewhat
funereally, through their noses. A live sense of
speech differences (think of Shaw's Pygmalion)
is rare in American playwrights; O'Neill tried
to cultivate it ("dat ol' davil sea"), but he could
never do more than write perfimctory dialect,
rather like that of somebody telling a Pat and
Mike story or a mountaineer joke. The only
American realist with an ear for speech, aside
from Chayefsky, whose range is narrow, is Ten-
nessee Williams. He does really hear his char-
acters, especially his female characters; he has
studied their speech patterns and, like Professor
Higgins, he can tell where they come from;
Williams too is the only realist who places his
characters in social history. Of all the realists,
after O'Neill, he has probably the greatest native
gift for the theatre; he is a natural performer
and comedian, and it is too bad that he suffers
from the inferiority complex that is the curse of
recent American realists— the sense that a play
must be bigger than its characters.
This is really a social disease— a fear of being
underrated— rather than the claustrophobia of
the medium itself, which tormented Ibsen and
O'Neill. But it goes back to the same source:
the depreciation of the real. Real speech, for
example, is not good enough for Williams and
from time to time he silences his characters to
put on a phonograph record of his special poetic
long-play prose.
Williams' critters
AL L dramatic realism is somewhat sadistic;
an audience is persuaded to watch some-
thing that makes it uncomfortable and from
which no relief is offered— no laughter, no tears,
no purgation. This sadism had a moral justifica-
tion, so long as there was the question of the
exposure of a lie. But Williams is fascinated by
the refinements of cruelty, which with him be-
come a form of aestheticism, and his plays, far
from baring a lie that society is trying to cover
up, titillate society like a peep show. The cur-
tain is ripped off, to disclose, not a drab scene of
ordinary life, but a sadistic exhibition of the
kind certain rather specialized tourists ])ay to
see in big cities like New Orleans. With Wil-
liams, it is always a case of watching some mangy
cat on a hot tin roof. The ungratified sexual or-
gan of an old maid, a yoimg wife married to a
homosexual, a subnormal poor white farmer is
proffered to the audience as a curiosity.
The withholding of sexual gratification from a
creature or "critter" in heat for three long acts
is Williams' central device; other forms of tor-
ture to which these poor critters are subjected
are hysterectomy and castration. Nobody, not
even the SPCA, would argue that it was a good
thing to show the prolonged torture of a dumb
animal on the stage, even though the torture
were only simulated and animals, in the end,
would profit from such cases' being brought to
light. Yet this, on a human level, is Tennessee
Williams' realism— a^ cat, to repeat, on a hot tin
roof. And, in a milder version, it is found again
in William Inge's Picnic.
No one could have prophesied, a hundred
years ago, that the moral doctrine of realism
would narrow to the point of becoming pornog-
raphy, yet something like that seems to be hap-
pening with such realistic novels as Peyton Place
and the later John O'Hara and with one branch
of the realist theatre. Realism seems to be a
highly unstable mode, attracted on the one hand
to the higher, on the other to the lower elements
in the human scale, tending always to proceed
toward its opposite, that is, to irreality, tracing a
vicious circle from which it can escape only by
repudiating itself.
Realism, in short, is forever begging the ques-
tion—the question of reality. To find the ideal
realist, you would first have to find reality. And
if no dramatist today, except O'Neill, can accept
being a realist in its full implications, this is
perhaps because of lack of courage. Ibsen and
O'Neill, with all their dissatisfaction, produced
major works in the full realist vein; the recent
realists get discouraged after a single effort. Street
Scene; All My Sons; The Glass Menagerie; Come
Back, Little Sheba; Middle of the Night; perhaps
Awake and Sing are the only convincing evidence
that exists of an American realist school— not
counting O'Neill. If I add Vk'ath of a Salesman
and A Streetcar Named Desire, it is only because
I do not know where else to put thein.
Harper's Magazine, July 1961
MIRIAM CHAPIN
Quebec's Revolt
against the
Catholic Schools
New voices — clerical and anticlerical — are
shaking French Canada's educational system . . .
and demanding change in its tradition-bound
ways of living, thinking, and teaching.
AF R I E N D of mine whom I shall call
Marline came to lunch with me one day
last week. She is a bright and well-informed
French Canadian whose husband teaches at the
University of Montreal, not far from my home.
She herself attended one of the few girls' classical
colleges, and took some university training in so-
cial service work. She married Jean-Paul at
twenty-two, younger than most French Canadian
girls marry, and she has three sons. She remarked
firmly one day that she wanted no more children,
and when I raised an inquiring eyebrow, she
said, "I don't have to confess everything I do to
the priest."
Her oldest boy is just beginning his classical
course under the Jesuits, at eleven. It was of the
second one, eight years old, still in public school
(French and Catholic, of course) near home, that
she began talking.
"He is so nervous. I just don't know what to
do with him. I wish his teachers wouldn't put so
much emphasis on the catechism and all that.
He keeps asking if he has to go to purgatory and
he cries and has nightmares about the martyrs
that they burned and shot with arrows, and
about the Crucifixion. He is too sensitive. The
other children don't seem to worry like that.
Jean-Paul says if he is so unhappy maybe we
ought to send him to a Protestant English school,
but we'd have to say we're Protestants and we're
not. We're French Canadian Catholics and so is
he, and we want him to grow up in his own
milieu— you know what I mean. Maybe an
English private school? But then he'd still be
apart from his own people. I guess the only
way is to make our schools change— but that takes
so long."
We were speaking English, as we usually do,
but then she switched to French, so I knew she
was deeply concerned and thinking out loud. "It
would be hard to take him out of the Catholic
school, for one reason because Jean-Paul's father
loves our children so, and would feel so grieved.
He is, well, a darling, but a little bit old-
fashioned. He thinks I ought to be more strict
with the children. He even doesn't like it at all
that the Cardinal has relaxed the hours for fast-
ing before mass— he says he's always fasted twelve
hours and he always will. For me, I've never
bothered much. You've seen me eat meat on
Friday lots of times—" she smiled at me. "But
even though I'm careless, I don't want to give up
my religion, it's a comfort to me in trouble. Jean-
Paul feels the same as I do. It's our way of life.
But I signed the petition."
"Petition?" I said vaguely.
"Yes, you know, the petition eight hundred
women signed— imagine, eight hundred of us—
asking the Provincial Government to give us free
public schools run by the Government. We want
a Ministry to run the schools, not the clergy. But
I don't want to get rid of the Church, I truly
don't. I just want them to mind their own busi-
ness."
I was startled to see tears in the eyes of my gay,
worldly friend. It came to me how rending to
luany French Canadians is this present "crisis of
anticlericalism," as the Church calls it. They are
a religious people, in spite of their frequent ir-
reverent jokes and blasphemy. Their Church has
stood for more than three centuries as defender
54
QUEBEC'S REVOLT
of their language and their national life against
the hostile English-speaking world around them.
It consecrates the rites that mark the stages
of their lives, christening, first communion, mar-
riage, and burial. Nuns and priests have come
from their families, though now they are mostly
from the generation over forty.
It is curious that many Americans were
worried lest a Catholic President might facilitate
Catholic control of American schools, while in
next-door Quebec anticlericals who are them-
selves Catholics in good standing are trying to
put laymen in control of theirs. A few of the
Church's opponents are of course atheists and
anti-Church as well as anticlerical, but they are
not the most influential. There are all shades of
opinion, and all are being loudly expressed—
which itself is a new thing in Quebec. Not since
the 1890s, when school reform came close to be-
ing achieved, has there been such outspoken
criticism of the clergy.
A VOICE OF DISQUIET
AT BASE, the ferment is due to the tre-
mendous change in Quebec's social struc-
ture in the past twenty years, its vast industrial
development, its urbanization. Now, hardly a
fifth of the population lives on the farms. The
cities bulge, the suburbs spread, the slums blight
I he centers. Practically all city French Canadians
are bilingual. They have to be, though English
Canadians arc recognizing the need to speak
French and are making progress at it. Quebec
has been pitchforked into the modern world.
Women leave their homes to work, to run their
own businesses, to teach in the university, and to
be jomnalists and lawyers and doctors and what
they please. In some ways French Canadian
women are more emancipated than English
Canadian women. They speak up loud and clear
in politics. The widow of former Premier Sauve
has just been chosen Quebec Conservative leader,
and she is no figurehead.
Some people in the Province want a separate
national Quebec, but most French Canadians,
feeling a new pride in their country, simply want
to be recognized as first-class Canadians. They
are not French and don't want to be. They want
to control their own Province, and they resent
the economic hold of English, English Canadians,
and now Americans on their mines and forests
and factories. To take their rightful place in
Canadian and North American life, they believe
better education is the first essential, and that
includes political education.
An important force in the upheaval has been
a small monthly magazine called Cite Lihre,
which can be conventionally described as left-
wing Catholic. It has been published for ten
years now, growing slowly in size and circidation,
with an influence out of proportion to the num-
ber of its subscribers. Edited by French Cana-
dians, some of whom have degrees from Harvard
and London as well as the Sorbonne, it has given
a voice to the disquiet of the intellectuals at the
corruption of politics, the failures of the schools,
the bankruptcy of clerical leadership in too many
cases. One of its former contributors became
Minister of Public Works in the present Pro-
vincial Cabinet, and set in motion some
drastic reforms. Citr Lihre has shocked and
angered many people, but it has been an oasis of
free speech.
Among the signs of a new realistic attitude to
the Church is the decision of the "Catholic
Syndicates" to drop the word "Catholic" from
their name, becoming "National" unions instead.
Another straw in the wind was the remark made
to a young novelist after the publication of her
first book. "It would have had better reviews if
it hadn't been 'sponsored by a priest." When a
bishop in Gasped advised the hospitals in his
diocese about the conditions under which the
nuns who run them should sign up for the na-
tional health-insurance plan, and so caused de-
lay, he was slapped down in the Quebec Parlia-
ment by the deputy from his constituency, and
told to "take account of his role."
Such irreverence would have been inconceiv-
able a few years ago.
The widespread discontent comes to a focus
on the public schools. Run by the clergy since
Quebec was first settled, they have educated
priests and lawyers, but far too few of the men
and women Quebec has long needed— the en-
gineers, chemists, physicists, biologists, business-
men, economists, bankers, all the technicians of
our industrial society. They prepare for life no-
where except in Quebec, and not very well for
that. The structure of the system has hardly
changed since 1875. The Provincial Government
controls only the sixty-odd technical schools,
agriculture, apprenticeship, handicraft, and the
Miriam Chapin has known Montreal for nearly
thirty years and reported on Canadian affairs in
many American magazines. She now spends ivinters
there and summers in Vermont, thirty miles from
her childhood home. The most recent of her four
books is "Contemporary Canada" (published in
1959 by the Oxford University Press).
BY MIRIAM CHAPIN
55
like. For the rest, it appoints a Council of Pub-
lic Instruction, composed of a Catholic and a
Protestant Committee, who have met together
once in fifty years.
Half the Catholic Committee must be bishops
and archbishops. They hold office for life,
supreme over the million Catholic schoolchildren
of Quebec, four-fifths of the Provincial school
population. They lay out the course of study,
approve the textbooks largely written to their
specifications, set the qualifications for teachers.
What they have given the Province is the "con-
fessional" school, the school so soaked in Catholi-
cism that even problems in arithmetic add num-
bers of angels or lay out building plans for
churches. History is disproportionately concerned
with Quebec's colonial days and nationalist
struggle; much of the reading is devotional;
while an hour or more a day is given over to
prayer and catechism. Many of the teachers
come from some religious order, and work for
lower pay than the lay teachers, who naturally
resent that situation. Many teachers have never
been out of Canada; almost all come from
Quebec itself. Far too many pupils, bored and
rebellious, drop out at fourteen to take some
dreary factory job, and in bad times they make
up the lines of unemployed.
Until 1942 attendance at school was not com-
pulsory, because the doctrine of the Church is
that education must be a matter for parents and
clergy; the state has no right to interfere. But
the state has had to interfere more and more,
with grants and subsidies and the assumption of
local school-commission debts, because the real-
estate taxes which were once supposed to support
the schools are so painfully insufficient. The De-
partment of Public Instruction within the Pro-
vincial Government sends inspectors to the
schools, runs normal schools, approves school
construction, and other things, but it is sub-
ordinate to the Council of Public Instruction.
If there were a real Ministry of Education, the
Council would be reduced to an advisory func-
tion. As of now, voters have little or no say about
the education their children get.
The stronghold of the Church is the classical
college. There are sixty of them, fifteen for girls,
all but one run by religious orders such as the
Jesuits, Sulpicians, Clercs de St. Viateur, and so
on, or by the hierarchy of a diocese. A boy enters
at eleven or twelve for an eight-year course in
Greek, Latin, English, French literature, rhetoric
(every educated French Canadian is expected to
be a polished speaker), versification, mathematics,
philosophy, with precious little science. Orders
of nuns run the colleges for girls. A few
girls go to the fashionable convents. A French
Canadian visitor recently wrote of a visit to an
Ursuline convent, "It is stuck in the Middle Ages.
For the pupils, religion seems reduced to the
morality which is taught them. It stinks in their
noses, and so does religion. They will abandon
it when they leave."
When a boy graduates from classical college,
he receives a degree granted by the university,
the "baccalaureate." It means nothing outside
Quebec. There, it admits him to the university
for three years of law, medicine, or arts. Until
ten years ago a boy whose family could not pay
the tuition and board charged by a classical col-
lege found his way barred to the university.
While fees are not high, they make a heavy
burden for a family with three or four children
to educate at a time. After the war, rude
democracy crept in, and the school commissions
were forced to open some high schools, all too
few. Now nearly half the university students
come from that background, and the universi-
ties have to provide undergraduate courses for
them.
The system is still awkwardly adapted to these
exigencies, and the whole field of secondary edu-
cation is in a state of general confusion. It was
designed to form an elite and concerned itself
not at all with the proletarian mass. The push
from below sends it into a dither. Shall the
classical colleges become public schools? Shall
more bursaries (scholarships) be given? Who
shall teach what? An Irish Catholic who worked
for the Montreal School Commission (Irish
Catholics always have at least one representative
on the Catholic Commission, but they never
think they get a fair deal from the French
majority) said to me years ago, "The French'll
be chasing those Brothers of theirs down the street
with rocks one of these days. You'll see."
BY BROTHER SO-AND-SO
NOW the Church is under attack from the
teaching Brothers themselves, those hum-
blest of all the clergy. The sensation of the
winter was a thin paperback, Les Insolences du
Frere Untel (Brother So-and-so), which sold more
than 100,000 copies. Written by a Marist Brother,
published without the impnmat\ir, the nihil
obstat of the Church, it is a harsh arraignment
of the Church's schools and of the Church itself,
by a young man who writes poetically of the love
and devotion he offers to the Virgin Mary, who
declares that he is in and of the Church, that he
56 QUEBEC'S REVOLT
will remain all his life in the order whose vows
he took.
From that background he talks of the bad
teaching in the schools, the abominable French
that is spoken by both teachers and pupils, the
atmosphere of fear that pervades the educational
system. He says, "Historically our Catholicism
is Counter Reformation. Add to that the Protes-
tant Conquest . . ." (He means the English con-
quest of Quebec since 1763, never forgotten by
French Canadians.) "And you have our Catholi-
cism—shriveled, timid, ignorant, reduced to a
sexual morality, and negative at that." His
superior backed him up, saying, "We have raised
enough sheep, it's time we raised some shep-
herds."
The discussion since has been unprecedented
at all levels. A French Canadian who sends his
children to an English Canadian private school
told me, "I don't want to. French is part of their
heritage, and I am cheating them out of it, at
least partly. But I can't stand the prayers any
longer, and the constant demand for complete
submission to authority." A rather uneducated
woman said to me, voicing a point of view I
hadn't heard elsewhere, "We've got to do some-
thing. All these immigrants coming in have so
much better education than our boys, they're
grabbing all the good jobs." It is true that
Montreal is now a tenth European.
An editor of Lc Devoir, Montreal daily, com-
plained that so many of the letters pouring in
about the schools demanded anonymity. "Why
all this fear?" he asked. One of the unsigned
missives spoke of the conspiracy of silence which
reigns about education at all stages, "as if the
expression of a legitimate discontent would shake
the Church." But that is just the trouble; it
does. Church and School are inseparable. An
old bishop summed up the dread that besets him
and his colleagues when he blurted, "How can
we recruit young men for the priesthood if we
do not control the schools?"
According to Paul-Emile Cardinal Leger, Arch-
bishop of Montreal, Quebec lacks five himdred
priests; he could place that many at once if he
had them. They are not forthcoming, in a Prov-
ince where it used to be the pride of every
Catholic family to give at least one son to the
Church. So while the wave of criticism flows
ovei" the schools, it laps at the foundations of the
Church itself. I was taken aback one day when I
asked the opinion of an older woman whom I
h'dxc long known as devout, obedient to the
Church's rules and genuinely loyal. She said
unhappily and very seriously, "It is Loo bad we
had no share in the French Revolution here. The
Church in France [where she spends her sum-
mers] is far more enlightened than ours, more
liberal, more intelligent, more beloved. I am
afraid of what is coming here."
I
THE JESUITS LOOK AHEAD
N THE midst of the commotion over the
lower schools— the demands for less religion
and more practical instruction— the Jesuits chose
the moment to toss a few buckets of gasoline on
another inflammable spot. The French-speaking
Jesuits want to combine two classical colleges in
Montreal, add a few advanced courses, and get a
university charter from the Government for the
product. The Irish Jesuits want to raise to uni-
versity status their Loyola College in Montreal,
which is now more like a small American de-
nominational college than like the Quebec
classical variety.
Quebec has three French-speaking universities
—Montreal, Laval, and Shcrbrooke— and three
English-speaking on^s. All except McGill are
gasping for funds; they are privately endowed
to begin with, but they survive on Federal and
Provincial grants. The University of Montreal
set up a howl at the Jesuit proposal, and its
professors issued a paperback. The University
sny.s NO to the Jesuits. They said such new in-
stitutions would draw off some of their best
teachers, too many of whom head for the higher
salaries south of the border anyhow, and would
doom all the universities to mediocrity. What
most of those protesting really want is a univer-
sity run by laymen— all the present French-speak-
ing ones are imder the Church— free of clerical
domination, free to discuss anything they choose,
free to pursue research wherever it leads. Ob-
viously, granting two new charters to the Jesuits
would stymie any such project for years to come.
Besides, the Jesuit move has stimidated several
small cities to dream of making their classical
colleges into universities. Trois Rivieres has even
ajjplied to Parliament for a charter. Such whole-
sale creation of universities would end by mak-
ing ihc title pretty meaningless.
The Jesuits say that in ten years new univer-
sities will be needed for Quebec's growing popu-
lation, that students from f)ihcr Provinces who
now have to attend non-Catholi( universities will
be glad to come to Quebec. French communities
in all Canadian Provinces want their own schools,
and some have them, but each Province deals
\viih education irulcj^endcniiy. and they vary
widely in the way they treat tlie French minori-
57
ties. The Jesuits believe now is
the time to prepare to gather in
both English and French from out-
side Quebec, and to take care of
the boys now in lower schools.
In Montreal I talked with
Father Gerard Plante, who is Di-
rector of Studies for all the Jesuit
colleges in Canada. "Lay teach-
ers?" he said. "But why not?
We have them now. We need the
university charter for the progress
of education in Quebec. We need
it to meet the fast-growing re-
quirements of French Canadian
society." He spoke with en-
thusiasm and conviction.
Other Jesuits cite their vast
experience in education, their
learned doctors— whose doctorates
are usually in the humanities, a
field where no Catholic would
dispute their competence. But it
is science that Quebec pants for. The Montreal
English newspapers support the Irish campaign
to make Loyola a university— which does it no
good at all with French Canadians. The Quebec
Government has put off its decision until a Royal
Commission on Education which it has ap-
pointed can report next year. Quebec is in for
a year or more of polemics.
ANYTHING BUT NEUTRAL
THESE arguments have become political
issues— as do most things in Quebec. The
remnants of the late Premier Duplessis' party,
now in opposition to the Liberals who won last
June's election, accuse the Government of
Premier Jean Lesage of wishing to betray the
Church, of plotting to do away with the confes-
sional school. A lot of his followers undoubtedly
do want to, but their leaders stoutly deny the
imputation. After all, the Church still carries a
lot of weight at election time.
So the Government protests that it reveres the
confessional school, that it will never never never
appoint a Minister of Education, that it abhors
the neutral school like the public school in the
United States. But the moves that it is making,
the extension of compulsory attendance through
the ninth year (with the Cardinal's assent), the
provision of stricter teacher training, of more
scientific courses, the promise of free tuition-
even through university some day— the plans for
regional secondary schools with "mixed" classes.
Willard Goodman
where boys and girls study together, all tip the
balance toward state control. Since Government
pays the piper, it will some day call the tune. It
appeals strongly to the renascent nationalist
movement in Quebec, when it points out that
in order to survive in our world, French Cana-
dians must have the best education available.
A laymen's association to promote the non-
confessional school has been organized, with some
respected leaders and considerable enthusiasm.
It would abolish religious entrance requirements,
and open the doors to French-speaking Jews,
French Protestants, nonbelievers. The first meet-
ing of the "Mouvement laic de langue fran^aise"
brought together six hundred persons. One
speaker deplored the feeling of guilt, the belief
in original sin which the schools impress on
children's minds. An attack on religious teach-
ing on these grounds instead of on those of
expediency would make the controversy fiercer
and extend it to the Protestant schools as well.
As Pierre Trudeau, one of the editors of Cite
Libre, remarked to me after that meeting, in a
slangy French phrase hard to put in English, "I
think we shook out the rivets."
The university students, who know by recent
experience what the confessional school is like,
are taking an active part in the fight to laicize
education. The student magazine at the Univer-
sity of Montreal, Le Qiinrtier Latin, headed a
biting editorial addressed to the clergy of Quebec,
"C'est le peiiple a geiioux qui releve la tete":
"The Kneeling People Lift Their Heads."
Harper's Magazine, July 1961
^^The Footnote-and-mouth disease
ny
HELENE HANFF
On the strength of a Grant-in-Aid from CBS,
a television writer for the Hallmark "Hall of
Fame," "Ellery Queen," and other popular story
programs, dives bravely into the maelstrom of
Recognized Sources and Bibliographic Research.
AW OMAN comes home from an after-
noon bridge game and says to her hus-
band: "Floss is definitely leaving Joe." Her
husband says: "Who told you?"
"Mabel."
"Where'd Mabel hear it?"
"Lucy told her."
"Who told Lucy?"
"I don't know."
Her husband looks unconvinced, so she adds:
"It must be true, it's all over town!"
In social circles, this method of conveying in-
formation is known as Gossip. In academic circles
it's known as Historical Resc;uch. I will tell you
how you find this out.
You're a writer. As part of a TV project,
you're doing research on the Alien and Sedition
Acts. Which is why, one rainy winter evening,
you're lying on the sofa with your shoes off, read-
ing the Congressional Record for 1798. You come
upon a si/zling speech delivered by a Congress-
man from New York named Edward Livingston.
You think you may need him in the TV script.
Accordingly, next» morning, you go down to
the Public Library to look up the life of Edward
Livingston. You consult first— de rigueur— the
Dictionary of American Biography, published un-
der the auspices of the American Council of
Learned Societies and known in historical re-
search as The Bible. Hereinafter referred to as
the D.A.B.
In the D.A.B. account of Livingston's life, you
read: "In 1782 he began the study of law at
Albany in the office of John Lansing [q-v.] where
he found as fellow students Alexander Hamilton,
Aaron Burr, and James Kent."
("Floss is definitely leaving Joe.")
("Who told youf")
The most recent book on the subject is Edward
Livingston, Jeffersonian Republican and Jack-
sonion Democrat, by W. B. Hatcher.
("Mabel")
You get Hatcher off the shelf. Hatcher says
Livingston studied law in Albany with John
Lansing. "Here he was thrown into intimate
contact with such brilliant legal minds as Alex-
ander Hamilton, Aaron Burr, and James Kent."
("Where'd Mabel hear it?")
Hatcher's bibliography directs you to the Life
of Edward Livirigston by C. H. Hunt.
("Lucy told her.")
You consult Hunt. Hunt says that Hamilton,
Burr, and Kent were "intimate fellow-students of
' Quoted from Sir Arthur Quillcr-Couch who got it
ironi a professor of his whose name he didn't mention.
Livingston's" and that the four "met outside the
office and tirelessly argued legal topics and
methods of study."
("Who told Lucy?")
You look for a footnote. There isn't any. You
look for a bibliography. There isn't any. (It's
an old book.)
("I don't know.")
You go back to the D.A.B. bibliography on
Livingston. It includes, among others, a book on
the Livingston family and four magazine articles
on Edward. You consult all five.
The book on the Livingston family repeats
the story. A footnote gives Hunt, Life of Edivard
Livingston, as its source. Three of the four arti-
cles repeat the story. In footnotes, two cite Hunt
as their source, one cites Hatcher.
("It must be true, it's all over town!")
You hit upon a simple way to check the story.
You go back to the D.A.B. and look up, in order,
Alexander Hamilton, Aaron Burr, and James
Kent.
When the library closes, you go home, mix
yourself a stiff martini, and crouch over it for a
while, oppressed by a feeling that you're not
doing very well.
What bothers you is not that while Edward
Livingston was studying law in the office of John
Lansing in Albany,' James Kent was studying law
in the office of Egbert Benson in Poughkeepsie,^
and Aaron Burr had finished studying with Wil-
liam Paterson in Raritan, New Jersey, and moved
on to the office of an unnamed lawyer in Haver-
straw, New York.^ Or even that Alexander Ham-
ilton either "studied law in the office of Colonel
Robert Troup in Albany,"^ or "rented a house in
Albany and took Robert Troup to live with
him,"' or "received all his legal training in New
York City."*
What bothers you is: are you sure? If so, of
what? All you are sure of is that each professor
(most of the Recognized Sources were college pro-
fessors) copied out what he read in the books of
his predecessors— getting it from Mabel who got
it from Lucy who got it from Pearl who got it
God-knows-where— and then listed all of them
solemnly as a bibliography.
A little gin does wonders, however, and pres-
ently you begin to feel more cheerful. For one
thing, you've at least found out who Edward
Livingston was. And for another, you may not
even need him in the cast.
' Opus cit.
^ D.A.B.
^ Portrait of a Prodigy by Loth.
* History of the New York Bench and Bar,
59
A month later you have finished the out-
line on the Alien and Sedition Acts— and you
didn't need Livingston in the cast. You
didn't need historians either: you used the Con-
gressional Record, transcripts of the Sedition
trials, and other original sources such as diaries
and newspapers of the day. No footnotes. No
bibliography. A man's life, however, is a different
matter. And having finished the TV project, you
once more wander into the Public Library in
search of Edward Livingston.
Thirteen biographies, twenty-nine histories of
the period, nine magazine articles, seven memoirs,
four essays, four lectures, three journals, three
annals, two diaries, two memorials, one master's
thesis, one monograph, five libraries, and six
months later, you still haven't found him. But
you've acquired a collection of facts straight out
of Gilbert and Sullivan.
Three things happen to gossip in the retelling:
(1) somebody gets it wrong; (2) somebody garbles
it; and (3) somebody embroiders it. Herewith a
sample from each category:
(1. Somebody got it wrong.) Either Edward
Brockholst and John R. Livingston founded the
city of Esperanza on the Hudson in 1807.' Or
La Rochefoucauld-Liancourt visited Esperanza
on the Hudson in 1795.^
(2. Somebody garbled it.) Either "Gulian C.
Verplanck . . . despite his Federalist and aristo-
cratic background . . . began uttering heresy as
early as 1790. Perhaps it was the influence of
Edward Livingston with whom he studied for
two years. "^ Or Gulian C. Verplanck was born
in 1784 and entered the office of Edward Living-
ston in 1801.* Or Gulian C. Verplanck was born
in 1786 and studied law with Edward Livingston.^
Or Gulian C. Verplanck was born in 1786 and
studied law with Josiah Ogden Hoffman."
Any way you take it— and despite his Federalist
and aristocratic background— Gulian C. Ver-
planck was uttering heresy at the age of six or
the age of four.
(3. Somebody embroidered it— or Gossip Run
Rampant.)
When Livingston was a child, the British in-
vaded Livingston Manor and set fire to the
' Tlie Hudson, by Carl Carmer.
- Travels in America, vol. II, by La Rochefoucauld-
Liancourt.
^Decline of Aristocracy in N. Y. Politics, hy Dixon
Ryan Fox. (The italics are mine; also. I imagine. Gu-
lian C. Verplanck's.)
* "Address to the Century Club," bv Daly, April 9,
1870.
^ Courts and Lawyers of New York.
"D.A. B.
60
"FOOTNOTE- AND- MOUTH DISEASE"
manor house in which he was born. Before the
invaders arrived, Edward's mother, Margaret
Beekman Livingston (the "high-bred dame" here-
inafter referred to) piled her children and posses-
sions into wagons and fled to Connecticut.
According to Lucy (Hunt, Life of Edioord
Livingston): "Let the reader picture to himself—
what actually occurred— that high-bred dame, at
the very moment of starting upon this journey,
enjoying a hearty laugh at the figure made by a
favorite servant, a fat old Negro woman, perched
in solemn anxiety at the top of one of the wagon
loads."
Sixty or seventy years later and according to
Mabel (Carl Carmer, The Hudson): "At Cler-
mont ... a train of wagons filled with silver . . .
furniture . . . bedding . . . was on its way to Con-
necticut. In one of them sat stalwart Margaret
Beekman Livingston . . . laughing heartily at
her fat black cook who sat on a pile of kitchen
utensils and directed her little grandson's driving
efforts with energetic thrusts of a long-handled
toasting fork."
Enter Mrs. Julia Delafield with another ver-
sion. But Mrs. Delafield's maiden name was
Li\ingston, and her grandmother (the Gertrude
in her story) was Edward Livingston's sister. Says
Mrs. Delafield (Life of Morgan Lewis): "The
mother and her daughters crowded into the fam-
ily coach. Gertrude looked out of the back win-
dow and was so diverted by the ludicrous figure
of an overgrown Negress perched on top of a
feather bed and rolling helplessly from side to
side that for a moment she forgot her grief and
laughed aloud. Her mother turned to her and
said, 'Oh, Gertrude, can you laugh now?' "
Mrs. Delafield then adds: "I related this anec-
dote which I have heard repeatedly from the
culprit herself, to Mr. Hunt, the biographer of
Edward Livingston. He misunderstood me."
("Yon knoxv Lucy, she never gets anything
straight!")
SPURRED on by such nuggets as this one,
and having run out of New York City
libraries to "research" in, you are now ready for
field trips.
Thanks to assorted bibliographies, you have
been told that two libraries— one nearby, one
several hours away by train— have "large collec-
tions of Livingston manuscripts." However, there
were numerous branches of Livingstons, all in-
sanely fertile. (There were, for instance, four
Robert Livingstons alive at the same time, and
three of them were Robert R. Tliere were three
Henrys, two of them Henry B.; three Williams,
three Johns, two Peter R.s, four Elizas, two
Kittys, and a Gitty— that you know of.) You
therefore write to both libraries to inquire
whether their collections include data about your
Livingston: Edward, 1764-1836.
A charming letter from the distant library says
that they have "five items" concerning Edward
Livingston. Hot on the trail at last, you hurry
off to Grand Central Station and board a train,
which will take you to within nine miles of the
library, from which point you ca)i take a cab.
Arrived at the library, you are warmly wel-
comed by the curator and taken to the Special
Collections Room. Your roll of microfilm is in-
serted in the machine, and you are left alone, pen
poised, to await the five items.
Item One: Rent receipt issued by E. Livingston
to a tenant.
I tern Tiuo: Rent receipt issued by E. Livingston
to a tenant.
Item Three: Rent receipt issued by E. Liv-
ingston to a tenant.
Item Four: Bill to E. Livingston from a coach
maker.
Item Five: A note, on a small sheet of white
paper, herewith reprinted in its entirety:
Sir
I will be diere at eleven o'clock if
I am not unexpectedly delayed at the office.
No date, you may have noticed. No residence.
No envelope, therefore no postmark. No ad-
dressee also. Obviously delivered by hand to a
fellow down the street.
Back at home that night, there's a letter from
the nearby library informing you that a professor
is writing a life of Edward's brother and has
therefore been given "exclusive use of the Liv-
ingston manuscripts for one year." Why not get
in touch with us a year from now?
(You have a sudden vision of Arthur Miller
arriving at Salem, Massachusetts, to do research
for "The Crucible" and being told that Salem,
Massachusetts, is closed for a year, some pro-
fessor's using it.)
The time has come to sit down, take off your
shoes, cup yoiu" hands round a mug of last night's
warmed-over coffee, and ask yourself:
"Quo vadis?"
In blithe disregard of the fact that you have
two months' rent in the bank, no job, no pros-
pects, nothing in the typewriter, and nothing in
your agent's offuc, you have spent montlis chas-
ing hither and yon looking for Edward Living-
ston on the (hante that when you're rich you
might take five years off and write his biography.
BY HELENE HANFF
61
You know now that a biography of Edward
Livingston is not the job for yon. In Purgatory,
you would ask for another assignment.
At last you put away the bibliographies, the
notebooks, the correspondence, the library slips
and searcher's passes and Supplemental Lists of
Recognized Sources. You get all of it out of sight
and the phone rings. It's your agent.
"How would you like," she says, "to do a very
short American history book for children? Ten
thousand words."
No job. No prospects. Two months' rent in
bank. You tell her you'd love it.
"A-thousand-dollars-no-royalties," she says, very
fast, and hangs up.
A ten-thousand-word history pamphlet, you
feel, should take two months of research and a
month to write. If you took this up for a living
you could make a cool $4,000 per annum, less
taxes and agent's commission.
On your way to the editor's office, you wonder
what contributors to the D.A.B. were paid; and
how much time they could afford to spend on
their research. You wonder what publishers pay
the college professors who write history books.
You wonder how— since nobody ever buys these
books but libraries— they can afford to pay them
anything.
The editor wants to know if you can write the
book in ten days. (I am not making this up.)
You settle on three weeks. You complain of this,
however, to an editor friend. Research, you point
out to him, takes time.
"Oh!" he assures you heartily, "you can do
all that research at second hand. Just be sure
you use Recognized Sources."
GOD OPENS HIS MAIL
LARRY RUBIN
Dear Sir:
Your poem interested us
Somewhat, but we do not consider it
Entirely successful. For one thing.
Your floral diction blooms in the right places.
But there are bugs which seem almost deliberately
Placed. Then, again, life breathes everywhere
In your work, yet you cancel it
Later in the lines with a disdain
No artist with a trace of self-respect
Would dare to show (not to mention compassion
For the child of his brain, but let
That pass). Do you have a friend
Who might perhaps be willing to read your work
Before you send it out? Just a suggestion,
But beginners must be guided. Another thing:
Your images, though pleasant taken singly.
Fail to fuse properly. We find a sly
Intent to suggest an over-all design,
And yet the reader sees no real organic
Whole. Your metaphors stand isolated;
No poem can carry such disparities
As shooting stars and glory-holes, no matter
How securely yoked. Creation carries
Certain responsibilities, and we
Are unconvinced you have accepted these.
There are other problems, of course.
But our staff is limited, and time is short.
You have, we feel, much to learn, but your talent
Will help.
Cordially,
The Editors.
P.S. Since half the battle is knowing
Your market, perhaps you would care to subscribe.
Harper's Magazine, July 1961
WALTER PRESCOTT WEBB
THE SEARCH FOR
WILLIAM E. HINDS
L O rv more tJian fifty years now — since
May 1904 — / have been searching for a
man I never saw. Though he died forty-five
years ago, the search grows more intensive
as I approach inevitably the time when I
can no longer pursue it. The reason I con-
tinue this search is that I owe this man a
great debt. It zvould mean a lot to me if I
could report to him how a long-shot invest-
ment he ?nade in Texas finally turned out.
Since I cannot report to William E.
Hinds, I am doing the next best thing by
reporting to other people— in hopes that at least
some of them may be enriched by the spirit that
animated this man. I think this would please
him. Once when I tried to express my apprecia-
tion, he wrote: "You cannot do anything for me,
but if I help you now, perhaps in time you can
help someone else." This is the nearest thing to
applied Christianity that I know.
He never told me much about himself and I
did not inquire because a boy on a small farm
in West Texas does not ask j^ersonal questions of
a mysterious and wonderful benefactor in New
York. He died before I had anything to say to
him, before there was any return on his invest-
ment, of Avhich I was the sole custodian. I knew
what I owed him, but for a long time I feared
that I might default on the obligation. As the
years went by, I prospered in a moderate way
and gradually rose in my profession of historian
and writer. The greater my success, the greater
became my sense of obligation to him. I have to
find some way to partially discharge it.
So this is a sort of public acknowledgment of
the obligation. It is also an appeal for more
information about William E. Hinds. Surely
there are some still living in New York who knew
him, and there may bt others elsewhere who were
warmed by his spirit. Before I set down the
scant facts I have about him, I must first tell
how his life touched my own.
My parents migrated from Mississippi to Texas
about 1884, destitute products of the Civil War
in search of a new opportunity. I was born in
1888, and four years later they moved to West
Texas. There I received the childhood impres-
sions that account for the realism in my first
book. The Great Plains. My father was a country
schoolteacher, self-educated, and he never had
more than a second-grade certificate. He was
one of the last fighting teachers, employed to
"hold school" in the country schools where the
big boys had run the teacher off the year before.
It was a rough life in a rough country. My
father was usually paid a premium of $10 a
month to teach these outlaw schools. He got $50
or $60 a month for a five-month term— an annual
income of $250 or $300, supplemented by what
he earned in the summer farming or working at
anything that came up, at about seventy-five
cents or a dollar a day.
I learned to read early, and by the time I was
ten reading became a passion. Since my father
was a teacher, we had books in the house, and
both my parents were readers. At that time the
most popular brand of coffee was put out by
Arbucklc Brothers, and you could get ten pounds
of it for a dollar. The beans came in one-pound
paper bags, with Mr. Arbuckle's signature on
63
the side; ii yon collected enough of his signa-
tures, he would send you a premium. The first
book I ever acquired for myself, ]ack the Giant
Killer, cost me ten signatures. It was the first
jjiece of mail that Uncle Sam ever brought to me,
and I can never forget the thrill of receiving it
at the Lacasa post office, the thrill of reading it
on Old Charlie as I rode him home. It was the
beginning of a long series of thrills and shocks
that have come to me via the post office.
Not only did I read everything in our house,
but I scoured the country for three miles to come
up with files of The Youth's Companion , The
Saturday Blade, and TJie Chicago Ledger. From
a peddler I acquired a big file of Tij) Top
Weekly, which dealt ^vith the doings of Frank
Merriwell, who seemed to be running things at
Yale. As far as I can recall, this was the first
lime I ever heard of college. From Frank Merri-
well I got the first faint desire to go to college
myself but it never occurred to me that I would
ever do it.
This reading opened up such a wonderful
world that I developed an aversion to the one
that lay around me. I wanted to get away from it
into the world where the books were.
When I was either twelve or thirteen, my
father homesteaded a quarter section of land—
160 acres— in Stephens County. This was about
ihe last of the vacant land, since the open range
Dr. Walter Prescott Webb has been described
by "Time'' as "his generation s foremost philos-
opher of the frontier, and the leading historian of
the American West." Most of his honors came late
in life. When he was seventy years old, in 1958,
he was elected president of the American Historical
Association, received a $10,000 award from the
Council of Learned Societies, was made an honorary
Doctor of Laws by the University of Chicago, and
ivas named by ex-students of the University of Texas
as one of its four most distinguished living alumni.
His best-known books are "The Great Plains, '
"The Texas Rangers," "Divided We Stand," and
"The Great Frontier." Dr. Webb has written many
articles for "Harper s" and for historical journals.
He was Distinguished Professor of History at the
University of Texas, Harmsworth Professor at Ox-
ford, and Harkness Lecturer at London University.
Since his "retirement" in 1958, he has taught at
Rice and the University of Houston, and now is
working for the Ford Foundation on an experi-
mental project for the teaching of history by closed-
circuit television. He is the owner of Friday
Mountain Ranch, which he describes as "overrun
ivith foxes, bobcats, 'coons, and ring-tails."
wds fast going under fence. The best land had
already been taken, and this place lay back in
what was called the Cross Timbers— deep sand
with a red clay bottom, covered with scrub oak
and blackjack. My father built a plank house in
an open glade, and we began opening up a farm,
the hardest work a boy can do.
This land had once belonged to Phil S. Leh-
man of New York, but he had wisely gone, off
and forgotten all about it. When we had paid
the back taxes and lived on it ten years, that
made it ours according to Texas law. We didn't
exactly steal it, but we were mighty glad when
the ten years expired. During that time my
mother was always apprehensive when a stranger
poked his head out of the brush, and it was not
until after the limitation had run that we
widened the road. From the time I was thirteen
until I was seventeen seems an eternity. When
we plowed, we plowed in new, stumpy land, and
when we were not plowing, we were making
more stumps and more new ground. For at least
two years I did not go to school at all because my
father was away teaching in the winter, and I
was the "man on the place" except on weekends.
VERY early in my career, my father made
a casual remark that had enormous influ-
ence on my life. He said that when I grew up
he wanted me to be an editor. Now I didn't
know what an editor was, but his remark ex-
cited my curiosity. I finally learned that an
editor ran the local paper. One day when we
were in Ranger, I made bold to go into the
office of the Ranger Record, and there was the
editor, whose name was Williams, pecking away
on an Oliver typewriter. This was the first type-
writer I had ever seen, and it fascinated me. I
stood looking over Editor Williams' shoulder at
this marvel until he suggested that I do some-
thing else. By this time I had spied a treasure of
untold magnitude, a great pile of "exchanges"
which Editor Williams had thrown into a corner
of the office because no wastepaper basket was
big enough to contain them. Most of the pajjers
were in the original wrappers, and all but the
latest ones were covered with dust. I got up my
courage to ask if I might have some of them, and
the editor said go ahead. I carried off as many
as I thought it would be seemly to try to get
away with.
Among them were several copies of The Sunny
South, edited by Joel Chandler Harris and pub-
lished in Atlanta, Georgia. The official records
lell me that The Sunny South, a weekly, was "de-
voted to literature, romance, fact, and fiction."
64
THE SEARCH FOR WILLIAM E. HINDS
It was then publishing A. Conan Doyle, Uncle
Remus, Gelett Burgess, Will Irwin, and many
other good writers, with lavish illustrations. It
was wonderiul, but the tragedy was that I had
only a few copies.
In reading it, however, I learned that for ten
cents I could have The Simriy Smith every week
for three months. I did not have ten cents, and
I knew of no way of getting such an amount of
money. My father was working hard and I was
almost afraid to approach him, though I know
now that he probably would have given mc the
dime had I asked at a propitious time. That
winter he was away, and my mother and I often
sat up late reading. One night I told her what I
wanted, and why. She did not say anything, but
I can see her now as she got up from her chair
and went diagonally across the room in the yel-
low light of a kerosene lamp, and extracted from
some secret place a thin dime. It may have been
the only coin in the house.
That dime is the most important piece of
money I have ever owned, for my entire life
pivots on its shiny surface. It brought The Sunny
South for three months, and soon the whole fam-
ily was in love with it. There was never any
troid)lc about renewing the subscription.
The letler column in The Sunny South was
presided over by Mrs. Mary E. Bryan. One day I
sat down and wrote her a letter which had one
(]ualiiy dear to an editor— brevity— and perhaps
another essential to the writer, a willingness to
l;i\ bare something deep in the human heart.
I said I wanted to be a writer, to get an educa-
tion. 1 mentioned that my father was a teacher,
and thai lie had been crijjpled in an accident. I
signed with my middle name, which I always
liked because an uncle who had the name was
something of a writer.
The letter was published in the issue of May
14, 1904. My father had come home from school,
and we were then plowing corn with Georgia
stocks. (A Georgia stock is a kind of one-horse
plow.) The corn was less than a foot high. It
was late in the afternoon, the time when the sun
hangs unmoving in the sky for an incredible
length of time. We were very tired and were
sitting on the beams of our Georgia stocks letting
the horses blow, when my sister came from the
mail box of the new rural route which ran about
a mile from the house and handed me a letter.
Few such letters have ever been received by
tired boys sitting on Georgia stocks in a stumpy
field. The envelope was white as snow and of
the finest paper; the ink was black as midnight;
the handwriting bold and full of character, with
fine dashes. The flap was closed by dark-red
sealing wax stamped with the letter H.
The address was:
Prescott
Ranger
Texas
c/o Lame Teacher
The letter bore a New York postmark. May 17,
1904, hut there was no return address. The en-
velope which lies before me noAv shows what care
I used in opening this letter. It read:
"Prescott"
Ranger
Texas
Dear Junior— I am a reader of the "Sunny South" and
noticed your letter in the "Gossip Corner"— I trust
you will not get discouraged in your aspirations for
higher things, as you know there is no such word as
fail, in the lexicon of youth: so keep your mind fixed
on a lofty purpose and your hopes will be realized, I
am sure, though it will take time and work.— I will
be glad to send you some books or magazines, (if
you will allow me to) if you will let mc know what
you like— Yrs truly
Wm. E. Hinds
489 Classon Ave
^ ,^, Brooklyn— New York
May 16/04 ^
Now I realize how narrowly I missed this
rendezvous with destiny. How did it come about
that a letter addressed to "Prescott" reached me?
The Sunny South came addressed to W. Prescott
Webb, and it passed through the hands of Mr.
John M. Griffin, the bewhiskered postmaster who
was an ex-Confederate soldier. Since The Sunny
South was pro-Confederate, Mr. Griffin got to
reading my paper and fell in love with it. He
and the rural mail carrier were probably the
only people outside my family who knew that
the name Prescott was really mine.
Even so, that letter nearly missed its mark.
The envelope bears the post-office stamp,
"MissF.NT," but I have no idea where it went
before reaching me.
From that day on I never lacked for something
to read— the best magazines in the land and oc-
casional books. Every Christmas a letter would
arrive from New York, and usually a tie of a
quality not common in West Texas.
These books and magazines fired to white heat
my desire for an education. Evidently my father,
who was not a demonstrative man, was touched
by my fervor. The stumpy farm had expanded
and because of my father's love for the soil and
his understanding of the principles of dry farm-
ing, it became productive. But there was still not
enough of it, and we rented additional land from
'
BY WALTER PRESCOTT WEBB
k..
cy ^
/t^
(gt^vcX^
/ji^€X^^<iJiJ^br
A<!t*<^^,e^
65
the neighbors. One day when we were clearing
land my lather asked me a question.
"Do you think," he asked, "that il you had one
year in the Ranger school you could pass the
examination lor a teacher's certificate?"
To that question the only answer was yes.
"Well," he said, "it you will work hard, and
il we make a good crop, we will move to Ranger
lor one year and you can go to school."
The year 1905 was one of the good years when
the rains came. The fields produced bountilully,
especially the new ground with the accumulated
humus of a thousand years. The Ranger cotton
gins ran day and night all fall. I know because
I fed the suction pipe on Saturdays and after
school. I had to make a sacrifice to go to school.
Every boy in West Texas had a horse. Mine was
a trim blue mare, close-built, easy to keep, fast,
and lovely to look at. I sold her for $60 to get
money for books; I got the tuition free by sweep-
ing the school floors.
I pored over my books because I had a con-
tract to deliver a second-grade certificate in the
spring. My extensive reading gave me some ad-
vantage, but I had rough going with mathe-
matics and grammar. I shall never forget J. E.
Temple Peters, principal of the school and a
near genius, who spent hours coaching a group
of us to pass the examination at the county seat.
When the time came, I had developed a severe
( ase of tonsillitis, and my fever must have gone to
103 and over. Peters, who was one of the ex-
aminers, fed me aspirin while the fever fired my
brain and seemed to sharpen all my facidties. I
wrote on the eight required subjects for two
days far into the night, but when I rose to turn
in my papers I staggered in the aisle. There was
never any thought of quitting. This was my only
chance.
When school ended, I went back to the farm
to await the decision of the examiners. Then one
day there was an official envelope in the mail
box. It was just a second-grade certificate which
permitted me to teach in the rural schools, but
to me it was a certificate of emancipation. I have
acquired a good many parchments of finer qual-
ity in my career, but this one outranks them all.
MY father not only moved the family back
to the farm, but he quit teaching to de-
vote all his time to it. I began where he left off,
and through his influence had no trouble in
getting an appointment. As a matter of fact, I
taught three schools in that year, one for six
weeks, one for four months, and one for two.
My salary ranged from $42.50 to $45 a month,
and I saved a bigger proportion of it than I have
ever saved since. I had an affair of conscience
because of the short hours. I had been accus-
tomed to working from ten to fourteen hours a
day, and there seemed to be something immoral
about quitting at four o'clock.
With the money I saved I spent another year
in school, and in the sjiring I passed the exam-
ination for a first-grade certificate. Suddenly I
became a success. I was employed at .175 a month
to teach the Merriman school which my father
had taught two years at .$60. (Underneath the
stony Merriman school groimds and the nearby
Baptist church yard lay a million or so barrels
of oil, not to be found for ten years.) I was
getting the maximum salary paid in the county
66
THE SEARCH FOR WILLIAM E. HINDS
schools. I was wearing good clothes and moving
in the highest circles of local society, working
five days a week and quitting when the sun was
Irom two to three hours high.
Then in the winter of 1909 everything
changed. One cold day, so windy that the peb-
bles from the playing field rattled like buckshot
against the side of the school building, I walked
down to the mail box and found a bulky letter
from William E. Hinds. It was dated January
9, 1909. Here are the most important para-
graphs:
My dear Friend.
. . . We have not had much winter as yet but the
last few days have been cold and presume we shall
have our usual amount before spring. My sister went
to Washington, D. C, for the holidays and was at the
White House New Year's. Secretary Cortelyou is our
cousin, so she was invited to stay at the White House
for luncheon. . . .
My friend. I wish you would irrite me what your
plans and wishes are for the future. Wc all have
plans and hopes for the future and it is well we have,
even if they are not always realized. Come, let us be
churns, and write me just ivhat is on your mind:
perhaps I can help you and after all the best thing in
life is to help some one, if we can. One would count
it a great thing (to remember) if they had helped
some one, that had afterwards become famous or
great, say for instance Lincoln or Gladstone or any of
the other great ones who were born a hundred years
ago this year. And perhaps I can say, "Why I helped
J. Prescott Webb when he was a young man."* And
people may look at me, as a privileged character to
have had the opportunity; so my boy tell me about
your plans and hopes and then perhaps I may l)e able
to help you carry them out.
Are there any books which you would like? // so
say so and let me send them to you. If you don't "say
so" I may send them anyway.
Your friend
Wm. E. Hinds
As an afterthought, he wrote on an extra
sheet as follows:
I am interested in your teaching. How many
scholars and are they mostly from the farm or town?
Teaching is good training and I know it will benefit
you.
Have you planned going to College in the fall, if
you haven't planned it, is it something you would
like to do, if so what College have you in mind? Now
answer all these questions, please.
At the time the letter came I had not thought
seriously of going to college. That was some-
thing for the sons of doctors and other prosper-
ous people. Besides I was already a success, and
rather enjoying the illusion. The letter faced
* For years he did not get my first initial right, but
addressed me as J. Prescott Wel)l).
me about, and made what 1 was doing insig-
nificant—a means only.
I answered all his questions, telling him that
I would like to go to the University of Texas.
I had saved some money, for I had been at work
three months, and I determined to save more.
I reduced my social activity, and Avith some dif-
ficulty restrained myself from making a bid for
a girl I had a very hard time forgetting. The
road ahead was rough enough for one, and too
rough for tAvo.
THUS it came about that in September
1909, I boarded the train for Austin and the
University of Texas with approximately $200.
Our agreement was that I Avould spend my
money, and when it played out, I would notify
Mr. Hinds and he would send me a check each
month. At the end of the second year, I owed
him about ,S500, and he suggested that I should
drop out and earn some money, saying that "I
am not a rich man." I sent him a note for what
I owed, but he woidd accept no interest. He
never did.
In 1911-12, I taught the Bush Knob school in
Throckmorton County, S90 a month. I reduced
the note and told him I would like to return to
the imiversity. He approved, and I can simi it
all up by saying that I never started a year at
the imiversity that he did not see me through.
He never refused any requests I made of him,
though I am glad to remember that I kept them
to the minimum.
The nearest he ever came to a refusal was one
summer when I made a good deal of money as a
student salesman. I wrote Mr. Hinds that I
wotdd like to come to New York to see him, and
that I had the money. He advised me to apply
it on my college education. I did, but I have
always regretted that I never saw him.
When I took the B.A. degree in 1915 I owed
him something less than .$500, which was our
limit. And here I need to say something about
my college career. I was twenty-one years old
when I entered college, and I had no preparation
for it. I had skipped too many grades and too
many years of schooling. I did not have en-
trance credits, but because I was twenty-one the
university admitted me on what is known as in-
dividual approval. My career as an undergrad-
uate was comjiletely huking in distinction. I
made fair grades in most subjects, but none to
make Hinds proud. He never asked a question
about grades. He never admonished me to do
better.
But every month the check came. What he
BY WALTER PRESCOTT WEBB
67
saw in me I have never been able to understand-
but the tact that he saw something, that he seemed
to believe in me, constituted a magnetic force
that held me on the road. If I felt inclined to
quit, or to go on a binge and spend money
foolishly, as my friends often did, I could not do
it for very long because there was a mysterious
man in New York who trusted me.
Equipped with the B.A. degree, I got a job as
jjrincipal of the Cuero High School at SI. S3 a
month. Then, in the fall of 1915 a letter came
saying that William E. Hinds was dead.
TH E lawyers found my note in his papers,
and they began to write me crisp and
business-like letters. They had me make a new
note to his sister, Ida K. Hinds, for S265. It was
co-signed by my father and bore interest. Then
came a letter from Miss Hinds, who had spent
her life as a teacher in the New York schools.
She said that she had taken over the note, and
that 1 would not be bothered with the lawyers
any more. In the fall of 1916, I married Jane
Oliphant, and moved to the San Antonio Main
Avenue High School as a teacher of history. Miss
Ida Hinds came down to spend a part of the win-
ter at the Gunter Hotel and she was often our
guest.
She told me about all I know of her brother;
that he had never married, that he had helped
other boys, and that he was an importer of
European novelties. She implied that he was not
intensively devoted to business, was rather casual
about it. After his death I received an excellent
photograph of Hinds, which is now before me.
He had fine features, black hair, blue eyes, fair
skin, a thin straight nose, and delicate ears. He
wore a black mustache and had a full head of
hair which appears to have been unruly.
Why didn't I get from Miss Hinds the informa-
tion I now seek about her brother? There is no
satisfactory answer to the question, as I look
back now. From where I stood then, the answer
seems reasonable to me. It never occurred to me
that I would write this story. At that time there
was no story because I had done nothing to
justify one, and I was not yet a writer. Even had
I thought of it, I would have considered that I
had plenty of time, for youth is not conscious of
the brevity of life. Moreover, I had just married,
and at such a time each day seems sufficient imto
itself.
Miss Hinds did not remain in San Antonio
very long. It was probably in January of 1917
that she went to Los Angeles and took residence
at 1316 South Vermont Avenue. Her first letter
was dated February 18, 1917.
Then a letter arrived postmarked Burlington,
Vermont, April 18, 1918. It marked the end of
the trail. Inside was an undated memorandum
VERMONT by John Updike
HERE green is king again,
Usurping honest men.
Like Brazilian cathedrals gone under to creepers.
Gray silos mourn their keepers.
Ski tows
And shy cows
Alone pin the ragged slopes to the earth
Of profitable worth.
Hawks, professors.
And summering ministers
Roost on the mountainsides of poverty
And sniff the poetry,
And every year
The big black bear,
Slavering through the woods with scrolling mouth,
Comes further south.
68
THE SEARCH FOR WILLIAM E. HINDS
irom her to me, which read: "I enclosed your
note in directed envelope so if anything happens
to me, it will be sent to you. If you receive this,
you will know that I have passed away and you
are under no further obligation. Consider the
matter closed as there is no one else that Avould
be interested."
The note she enclosed was for 3265 with 5 per
cent interest. Endorsements on the back show
that on April 17, 1917, I paid $100 principal
and .$16.56 interest, leaving a balance of $165
due in six months with interest "at 6% or 7%."
The last endorsement is dated October 11, 1917,
with a payment of $90 on the face of the note
plus $5.68, leaving a balance of $75.
That $75 has never been paid to anyone con-
nected with Hinds. It has, however, been paid
over and over to those who needed it, and it
will be paid again in the future as Hinds would
have wanted it.
The act of this man is the unsolved mystery
of my life. I have never been able to understand
what motivated him. I find it easy enough to
write a check for some student in temporary
need, one that I can see and know, and I have
written a good many such checks. But I still
cannot understand how a man in New York City
could reach far down in Texas, pluck a tired kid
off a Georgia stock in a stumpy field, and stay
with him without asking questions for eleven
years, until death dissolved the relationship.
He did not live long enough to see any sign
that the investment he made was not a bad one.
In 1918 I became a member of the faculty of
the University of Texas. My development there
was slow— I have been late all my life— and it was
not until 1931 that I published my first book,
The Great Plains. Others followed in due course,
but it was not until after 1950 that things began
to happen which might have gratified William
E. Hinds. When these marks of recognition
came, my satisfaction w^as always tinged with
regret that he could not know about them.
William E. Hinds was a great reader, and he
probably was aware of Shelley's ironic lines:
The seed ye sow, another reaps;
The wealth ye find, another keeps;
The robes ye weave, another wears;
The arms ye forge, another bears.
I have reaped where he sowed, and I wear
what he wove. Indeed, I keep a part of the
wealth he found, but I have tried to keep a little
of the spirit with which he used it. His spirit has
hovered over me all my life. His name appears
in the Preface or Dedication of my major books.
I cannot now better describe what he did for me
than I did in TJie Texas Rangers:
To the memory of
WILLIAM ELLERY HINDS
He fitted the arrow to the bow
set the mark and insisted
that the aim be true
His greatness of heart is known
best to me.
This is the end of the story. I appeal to those
who read it, for more information about William
E. Hinds. I would like to know when and where
he was born, where he was educated, and what
occupation he followed. If he helped other boys,
as his sister stated, I would like to know who they
are and what they did. His will might reveal
something about his interests and activities.
I have consulted with private detective agen-
cies about making a search, but found them just
as vague about what they would do as they were
specific about fees. I admit that this investiga-
tion should have been made long ago, but it was
something easy to postpone. It might have been
possible to make contact with the Cortelyou
family, but I neglected to do it. While in New
York once, I took a taxi to the place where
William E. Hinds lived in Brooklyn, and I ran
the index of the Neiv York Times in search of his
obituary, but could not find his name. In Jan-
uary 1961 I had a bout with the hospital and the
surgeons, and came pretty close to losing. This
was a warning that I could no longer delay; as
soon as I was able, I went to work in earnest.
I now summarize the facts I have about him.
His full name was William Ellery Hinds. For
several years after 1904 he lived at 489 Classon
Avenue, Brooklyn, New York. He later moved to
another address which I do not have. The only
relatives he ever mentioned were his sister and
some cousins, one of whom was George B. Cor-
telyou, Secretary of the Treasury under Theodore
Roosevelt after 1907. I do not know the exact
date of his death, but it must have been in the
autumn of 1915 because my note made out to
Ida K. Hinds bears the date of January 25, 1916.
The meager results of my search thus far sug-
gest that if I remain silent, William E. Hinds
may be forgotten. I want him to be remembered.
Finally, it seems to me that what he did may
encourage others to follow his example, and thus
perpetuate his influence. He would want no
better monument.
Anyone having information about William E.
Hinds should address W. P. Webb, University
Station, Austin, Texas.— The Editors
Harper's Mnguziue, July 1961
William E. Hinds
^?I,^,„.^^ Ck^ -'-t-^*--
i.>*j».^T-V
The first letter jruin the Brookly}i stranger
'f\
UKieXSKH tM 5 »A-r«l TO
WM. 38!. HINDS
48® OI^ARSON AVENITK
BoaoHoa BROOKtSN
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yy
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J^H
w
-;^9M
Scallop Shell on the ocean floor ►
How a
Scallop Shell
became
a world-famous
trademark
• Seashells carried halfway around the world— from
an ocean floor in the Orient to Marcus Samuel's curio
shop near the London docks— started a chain of events
that created one of today's best-known trademarks.
Sailors coming olT their ships sold the seashells they
had coUected to the curio shop owner. When used on
ornamental boxes and trinkets, the shells found favor
in mid-Victorian eyes, and the merchant imported
thousands upon thousands of shells.
Later, the sons of Marcus Samuel gave this Far
Eastern trade a new dimension by shipping the first
bulk cargo of kerosene through the Suez Canal. They
gave seashell names to their ships, and when a com-
pany was formed to engage in the oil business, the
scallop shell became its trademark.
Perhaps it was out of sentiment for their father's
beginnings that Marcus Samuel's sons thought of the
shell. Yet their choice proved most appropriate for the
enterprise that was to become the Shell Companies.
Since antiquity the shell has symbolized the sea,
the voyage and the quest. Venus, born of the sea, was
identified with the shell. It was the badge of pilgrims
to the shrine of the apostle, St. James --and of Cru-
saders in their quest to the Holy Land.
In our day, as name and trademark of the Shell
Companies, the shell continues to be the sign of the
quest. Shell men search for oil in forests, deserts and
under the ocean floor. Then the quest goes on in Shell
laboratories where research people seek new products
from petroleum.
Examples: man-made rubber that duplicates tree-
grown rubber for the first time. New insecticides to aid
the farmer in his age-old battle against pests. Adhe-
sives so tough they replace rivets in airplanes. And,
of course, always finer gasolines and motor oils.
When you see the Shell sign think of it as the symbol
of the quest for new ideas, new products and new ways
to serve you. The Shell Companies: Shell Oil Com-
pany; Shell Chemical Company; Shell Pipe Line Cor-
poration; Shell Development Company; Shell Oil
Company of Canada, Ltd. cshell o.u company i96i
lUt*,
,UH/
'HPJj^
SIGN OF A BETTER FUTURE FOR YOU
Figure 1. I. C. I. Building, Melbourne.
Australia: Bates, Smart and McCut-
cheon, architects
WOLFGANG SIEVERS
THE SUITCASE AND THE BUNCH OF GRAPES
«L..-j.
Figure 2. Restaurant pavilion, Ida
(iason Ciallaway Ciardens, Georgia;
Riciiard Aeck, architect
GREY VILLET— LIFE © 1958 TIME INC.
ROBIN BOYD
THE NEW VISION
IN ARCHITECTURE
Yesterday's Functionalist architecture with its
rigorous dogma and moral self-righteousness is
giving way to a neiv and freer kind of monolithic
design . . . full of surprises and invention.
TH E men who create the man-made back-
ground of lile are of three kinds: the
Haves, the Have-nots, and the Makers— of taste.
At this time the Have-nots are, as always, creat-
ing a cheerless carnival atmosphere at every
opportunity; the Haves are intent on composure
as usual; and the Makers of taste— always rest-
lessly exploring some fresh field of design— have
lately rediscovered an ancient artistic truth
that puts them in open revolt against both the
others.
To understand this revolt it is necessary first
to examine briefly what they are revolting
against.
Nearly all ordinary design which makes up
the everyday background of modern life is the
work of people who rely not on ideas but on
taste, whether they have it or not. Those who
have not are engaged now as ever in their
honorary task of making all they touch bright
and gay. To do this they now can call on a
wider range of materials, textures, and pigments
than have ever before been available to them.
But their principles and methods are still much
the same as when they used fretwork and gar-
goyles. Their object is to keep the eye enter-
tained, filled to capacity with as many contrasts
of shape and color as possible. A home is made
more diverting if the brickwork is relieved by
panels of stonework, if the paintwork is con-
trasted by a few walls of bold art wallpaper, if
the kitchen is custom-striped in multicolored
tiles, and the hard industrial lines of the equip-
ment are softened by the popular new lingerie
look.
Thus the taste Have-nots create their con-
temporary carnival by constantly dividing things
up: the artistic entity of the house is first divided
into a number of individually conceived, unre-
lated spaces— for instance, a feminine master-
bedroom, a masculine boy's room, and a neuter
living-room. Then each space is splintered into
a number of separate effects: rugged stone fire-
place contrasted with gleaming metal contrasted
with flounces of candy stripes. At all costs they
want to avoid the boring monotony of artistic
unity. They want as many elements as the eye
can take in: colors, ornamental surfaces, and
symbols of good living.
The social and economic influences at work
here may be obvious enough, but the artistic
origins are more oblique. The presently desired
state of restless richness in contemporary home
design is largely the illogical conchision of the
sober, austere, even puritanical, movement in
design Avhicli might be called the first j^hasc of
modern architecture.
This first phase was established about the
beginning of this century and had the great
crusading idea of cleaning up the artistic mess
of Victorian design. This meant two principal
fights. The first was to free buildings from the
obligation to follow any preconceived forms, al-
lowing them to take any practical shajie they
wished. For instance, the modern architect
fiercely denounced the idea that a product of
the machine age could reasonably be shajied like
Roman baths— as in Pennsylvania Station. The
second fight was to set free the technological
advances of the nineteenth century which had
been suffocating under various theatrical dis-
74
NEW VISION IN ARCHITECTURE
guises. For example, the nineteenth century had
learned to build steel-iramed skyscrapers, but
convention still demanded that the steel be
dressed to look like solid masonry— as in the
Municipal Building, New York, or practically
any other early skyscraper you can think of
outside Chicago.
The most noticeable feature of the earliest
modern architecture was a moralistic elimina-
tion of ornament, but there was something else
equally radical and equally significant: the
idea of separating the parts. Perhaps the best
example is to be found in the Baidraus at Dessau,
the famous pioneer modern building designed
by Walter Gropius in 1926. In his basic design
Gropius provided for revolutionary separation
of the elements composing the school, each of
which was encouraged to take its own func-
tional shape. The Bauhaus workshop was a huge
glass box. The students' studios occuj:)ied a
multistory, balconied block. The cafeteria was
long and low. These three clearly, proudly
separated parts were joined by other minor
functional elements, and the whole complex was
arranged into a balanced composition. But it
still was a complex— an assemblage of deliber-
ately articulated, deliberately different things,
each provided with its own separate expression
and separate entity within the composition.
The taste Have-nots developed or perverted
this idea of articidation and separate expression
of elements, but they coidd not accept the dis-
cipline of the rest of early modern architectural
theory. And so today they go even further than
their grandfathers in their enjoyment of pieces
and their dislike of wholes.
The Haves, the men of good taste, on the
other hand, are very concerned about composi-
tion. They are not especially interested in the
theory of giving separate identity to different
parts. In general they are far more interested in
the appearance of buildings than in what goes
on in them or any theory about them. They will
make different parts look the same if it pleases
them, and they will break one part up into a
dozen visual elements if it seems to look better
Robin Boyd is an Australian architect, a mem-
ber of the firm of Grounds, Rombere; and Boyd, and
a lecturer at the University of Melbourne. He was
Visiting Bcmis Professor of Architecture at MIT
in 1956-57 and in 1960 was elected Honorary Fel-
low of the American Institute nl Architects. His
books include "Victorian Modern" and, most re-
cently, "The Australian Ugliness."
that way. All they insist on is having a number
of contrasted parts— not too many, not too few
— Av'hich they can then arrange with taste into a
balanced composition.
But the third group, the creative designers
who eventually make taste (if it doesn't break
them in the meantime), are now looking for
an answer to the meaning of design which is
not to be found in the carnival nor in composi-
tion. They seem to be looking back a long way
behind the birth of modern architecture and
the theories of articulation and functional ex-
pression, back to the birth of classical design
concepts, to find some elixir of design, of beauty,
of Platonic perfection of form.
MARRIAGE TO A MONOLITH
WH A T is happening among the creative
architects today oddly recalls what hap-
pened about 1900 when the idea of functional
simplicity broke through into practical applica-
tion and modern architecture officially arrived.
In 1900 the Functionalist idea was not new; the
seeds had been sQwn carefully fifty years earlier.
All that was new was the strict, literal, unbend-
ing interpretation of the idea.
Similarly today the one consistent idea which
seems to be taking shape in the mists of modern
architectural thought is not a new idea, but a
new, literal, unbending interpretation of another
old idea. This is the classical concept of a total
unification by design.
Total is the important word here, just as total
simplicity was the key to the first revolution of
modern architecture. Serious architects have
always worked to a theme of sorts and have al-
ways believed their buildings to be reasonably
simple. Even the most frenzied of Victorian
decorators liked to think of their works as
irreducible.
But it is the degree of simplicity and unity
that matters. The early modern architects went
back to the utilitarian tradition of barns and
bridges in their absolute ban on ornamental
effects. Now some fifty years later an equally
drastic and fundamental revision is overtaking
the popular form of architecture: starting some-
time about 1955 every new building of self-im-
portance sought to be a single thing. It was no
longer content just to be composed, integrated,
and co-ordinated by a regular "module" (unit
of measure) or an even rhythm of similar ele-
ments. It was not content to be a balanced as-
semblage of parts— like the Bauhaus or the
United Nations headquarters. It was not con-
75
tent to give the suggestion of organic growth-
like Rockeleller Center. Suddenly every im-
portant building wanted to have a monolithic
idea.
It would be impossible to put a date on the
beginning of this monolithic movement. Perhaps
its first spectacular manifestation was the dome-
shaped Kresge Auditorium at the Massachusetts
Institute of Technology, designed by Eero
Saarinen in 1953, a monolithic concept if ever
there was one, and in strong contrast to the
Avandering, if controlled, compositions of
Saarinen's earlier successes. But long before
this, Frank Lloyd Wright had published his
designs for the most monolithic of all his Avorks,
the Guggenheim Museum, and years before that,
in 1927, Buckminster Fuller produced his early
designs for a "Dymaxion" industrialized house, a
six-sided box hung on a central mast. In fact
one can quite easily trace isolated origins back
through Eric Mendlesohn's sketches of plastic
one-piece structures in the 1914 \s'ar period to
the beginnings of modern design. But gradually
in the past five years the monolithic idea has
become a passion, or a fashion, and the various
means now used by architects to create the de-
sired singleness of effect account for most of
the apparently unrelated personal styles of the
moment.
THE SUITCASE AND THE
BUNCH OF GRAPES
THERE are two main basically different
ways to make a monolithic effect. The
most common method is to use a box. One se-
lects a likely-looking single container and fits
into it all the necessary parts of the building,
like packing a suitcase. As it happens, the most
common box usually does resemble the propor-
tions of a businesslike suitcase: the international
modern glass-box office block (Figure 1). The
other Avay to look monolithic is to be cellular,
like a honeycomb, or a bunch of grapes. One
selects a likely-looking unit of space for the
building— say, the bedroom-bathroom unit in
a motel, or the classroom in a school— and one
makes the whole building a muhi])k' of similar
cells, with no distractions (Figure 2). This
technique usually turns out to be more practical
than the most flexil^le of suitcases, because the
grape units may be placed anyAvhere that func-
tion dictates, and the over-all shape of the
building may spra^vl anywhere that the occupiers
desire, without the luiitv i)eing destroved. For
the bunch of grapes is still a single thing no
l|4IIIIIIIIIMIIIi*ll**i» ifinitimiiliHl
[iiiiKiiiiniiiiiiiiiiiliiiiitlililiiiililliiii
BILL ENCDAHL, HEDRICH-BLESSINC
Figure 3. Theatre, Marina City project, Chicago;
Bertrand Goldberg Associates, architect
ROBERT DAMORA
Figure 4. Spray House #1; John M. Johansen, architect
Figure 5. Bubble House, Hobc Sound, Florida; Eliot
Noyes and Associates, architect
76
Figure 6. Decorative sunshades, U. S. pavilion. New
Delhi, India, exhibition; Minoru Yamasaki, architect
^^^^0Cm
Figure 7. I'. S. Consulate, labnz, Iran; Ethvard
Lanabee Barnes, architect
JOSEPH \V. MOLITOR
Figure 8. Sarasota High School, Sarasota, Florida;
Paul Rudolph, architect
matter how ungeometrkally and disorderly it
grows.
Each of these two principal means of acliieving
a tight, intense tniity in the building has many
possible variations. The suitcase may be pur-
pose-shaped in the way of a violin case, hinting at
the things it contains, like the theatre in the
Marina City project in Chicago (Figure 3), or
it may dissolve into quite a loose, flexible thing
like a plastic bag full of mixed fruit, as John
M. Johansen has demonstrated in his sug-
gestion for a hypothetical house of free-formed
concrete shells (Figure 4). Modern engineering
is continuously enlarging the range of economical
and practical container shapes. Concrete sprayed
on an inflated balloon makes a practical sack
to cover a small house in Florida (Figure 5), and
a membrane of metal woven like fabric and
propped up at one end makes a sort of giant car-
pet bag to cover a music bowl in Melbourne.
Sometimes the container bears little relation
to the contents and is in fact deliberately ir-
relevant and disguising, like the gift-wrapping
style of the concrete grilles used by some archi-
tects. And sometimes the container may take
a proudly exotic shape, symbolic or evocative of
some aspect of the building's purpose, like a
rather cheap perftmie bottle or, regrettably, a
number of recent churches. And sometimes, when
one suitcase cannot practically hold all the re-
quired elements of the btiilding, the architect
resorts to using a few extra, smaller containers,
but he makes each of them a miniature of the
dominating one. matching in shape and ma-
terials. He thus achieves the unity of a porter's
trolleyful of matched luggage, or, if you prefer,
a family of mother duck and ducklings. But
whatever strange shape the container takes, or
whatever combined form— matched luggage, a
family, a bunch of grapes— the important thing is
that the noini is singular: a number of things has
been made into a singular thing.
The individtial grape in the bunch may also be
exotic fruit, as in the purely decorative and
frivolous U. S. pavilion at the \Vorld Agricultural
Fair in New Delhi, where Minoru Yamasaki
used a golden Fiberglas Eastern dome as a
sunshading grape. He could have added as
many domes as required by the exhibition
authorities without embarrassment to the bunch
(Figure 6). Or the grape may be slightly less
exotic and more functional as in the U. S. Con-
sulate at Tabriz, Iran (Figure 7), or not exotic
at all and convincingly practical, as in the folded
concrete units of Paul Rudolph's Sarasota High
School (Figure 8) in Florida.
77
Again, the grape may be used as a practical
solution to the industrialization of house build-
ing, for a house might be mass-produced like a
car if it could be broken do^\n into a number
of standardized units of space enclosure each
about the size of a car, as proposed by George
Nelson and Gordon Chadwick.
TWINSHIP AND CIRCLE
THERE are of course other variations of
these two main techniques. Twins are
popular. A few years ago, if an architect had
found it necessary to build two similar buildings
—say, apartment blocks— beside each other, he
would have gone out of his way to avoid what
was considered one of the worst design faux pas:
duality. Probably he would have made one of
the buildings tall and thin, the other short and
fat; he would have composed them as two
things, leading your eye gently from the squat to
the tall one. Now, as proposed in Bertrand
Goldberg's twin sixty-story apartment cylinders
at the Marina City development in Chicago
(Figure 9), the architect makes the two things
identical so that they are in effect one thing:
a pair.
The archetype of modern twins was perhaps
the Mies van der Rohe apartments of 1956 on
Lake Shore Drive, Chicago. But then in a
sense the whole monolithic movement A\as begun
by Mies. For it ^\as he A\ho reversed the slogan
of early modern architecture: "Form follo^vs
function.' The architect's duty in the techno-
logical age, said Mies, is to build perfect struc-
ture and form. Then function ^vill fit it. Mies
spends his creative life perfecting the technology
and character of the glass suitcase building as a
kind of nonemotional abstract poetry. But mean-
^\•hile his reversal of the old Functionalist prin-
ciple had set others off, freed of inhibitions, on
a delightful search for beautiful form. And in
seemingly no time many architects in many parts
of the Avorld came back from the search tri-
umphantly carrying a circle.
It is no coincidence, and no simple fashion,
that the circle no^v is almost as common a shape
in creative architecture as the rectansrle ^\'as a
few years ago. The circle is translated into the
three dimensions of a usable building in a
dozen ways. It becomes a cone, or a drum, or—
most frequently— a ring, as in a fairly classic
and symbolic example: the fallout-proof school
designed by Albert Sigal, Jr. for the California
Council of the American Institute of Architects'
Committee on Nuclear Energy (Figure 10).
BILL FNCDAHL, HEDRICH-BLESSINC
Figure 9 (above) . Apartment blocks, Marina Citv
project. Chicago: Bertxand Goldberg .Associates,
architect. Figure 10 (below). Fallout-proof school,
Albert E. Sigal Jr., designer
78
1I\/\H KORAB
Figure 11 (above). Skyscraper, Detroit; Minoru Yama-
saki, architect. Figure 12 (below). Proposed Hori/on
City; Lucio Closta, planner
RAY MANLEY
The emergence ot the circle Irom the rec-
tilinear background oi modern architecture is
not really sinprising. This new monolithism h
a reaction against early modern architecture's
often overintense worship of the machine and
the right angle. This is a more scholarly, sen-
tentious, classical approach, frankly open to
inspiration from the past.
One of the first moves was to compress the
ubiquitous rectangle into the tighter geometrical
shape of the square— hence the number of new
tower buildings that are exactly square in plan,
like Yamasaki's Michigan Consolidated Gas
building in Detroit (Figure 11). But a circle is
far better still. The circle is the most self-con-
tained, precise, concise shape, recurring at in-
tervals throughout history in the plan of special
public buildings from Stonehenge on. Turned
into three-dimensional form, as in a dome, the
circle suggests the arch of the heavens, the sphere,
the divine form of a drop of water, or the earth,
or the universe.
The mystical connotations here are not ir-
relevant. Partial responsibility for the present
rash of circles must be accepted by Professor
Rudolf Wittkower, whose learned treatise on
the mystical influence, during the Renaissance,
of Pythagorean and Vitruvian theories of form.
Architectural Principles in the Age of Human-
ism, has been required reading in most archi-
tectural schools for a decade or so. The ancients
saw cosmic significance in involved mathematical
analogies between music, geometry, and the
human body. They would have delighted in
the form of hundreds of new variations on the
circle and the dome which are now appearing
every day: for instance, the Civil War Centen-
nial Dome in Virginia; or a dozen projects
for dome-homes; or the two complementary
buildings for Brasilia's houses of parliament by
Oscar Niemeyer— one a conventional dome, the
other a matching upside-down bowl.
SINGLENESS
OUT OF CONFUSION
BESIDES, mystiques apart, the circle and
the dome are economically justifiable. They
are nature's way of enclosing the most within the
least surface. ^Vorking without a trace of mys-
ticism and strictly within rational engineering
principles, the Italian architect-engineer Pier
Luigi Nervi frequently produces a circular plan
and a domed form for his intricate ventures in
concrete, seen at their best in the Rome Olympic
Games stadia.
I
79
Scale affects all architectural thinking, old
as well as new. If, for instance, you asked an
architect of the early high Functionalist era
to create for you a model community, he
would design separately the commercial, indus-
trial, cultural, religious, and domestic areas of
the town, and give all these separate architectural
expressions on his drawing board. But he would
probably be content to leave each separate house
as a simple block. However, when you asked
him to detail a house, he would design as sepa-
rate boxes the living, sleeping, and service areas
and the garden shed. Finally, when he concen-
trated on the shed, he woidd design separately
the places for the hand tools and the heavier
equipment, giving them different expression, and
"would probably provide a circular place for
rolling the hose. By this illustration I mean to
suggest that the idea of separating different
functional parts was essentially not a practical
scheme so much as an artistic idea which could
be expanded or contracted in interpretation to
suit the will or whim of the working architect.
In a similar way, but in reverse, scale affects
the artistic idea of monolithism. Certainly it is
not hard for anyone to imagine a monolithic
concept for a single building which is to function
simply as a small shrine— although few would
turn the suitcase into such a glamorous evening
bag as Philip Johnson has made the Rappites'
memorial in Nc^\■ Harmony, Indiana (Figure
14).
But as the movement develops and designers
keep tightening up their architectural themes,
it is seen that more and more complex functions
can be packed into bigger and bigger suitcases.
The circle stretches to take in a ^vhole jet airport,
as proposed for Kansas City (Figure 13), or a
college building for six thousand students, as in
Raleigh, North Carolina, or a whole city as in
the Horizon City project proposed for Texas by
the Brazilian planner Lucio Costa (Figure 12).
It is clear, however, that even the biggest suit-
cases or grape-bunches have their practical
limitations— illustrated in the ragged edges of
the proposed Horizon City scheme (which is now
in the planning stage). Only in a dictatorship
or a classical Utopia would you expect everybody
to conform uncomplainingly to some allotted
compartment in a cosmic dream.
The suitcase and grape-bunch, however, are
not all the new movement has to offer. There
are other methods of drawing an effect of
singleness out of complexity. One of them
which grew up alongside the suitcase and grape-
bunch is on the face of it entirely opposed to
Figure 13 (above). Proposed jet airport, Kansas City;
Cooper-Robinson-Carlson-O'Brien, architects. Figure
14 (below). Memorial to the Rappites, New Harmony,
Indiana; Philip Johnson, architect
JAMES K. MELLOW
NEW VISION
ARCHITECTURE
MARC NEUe
Figure 15. La Tourette, Dominican monastery, France; Le Corbusier, architect
them. It is seen at its best in the latest building
of one of this century's greatest taste-makers:
La Tourette, a Dominican monastery in France
by Le Corbusier (Figure 15). At first glance,
it has the faint suggestion of a suitcase, like
most Le Corbusier works, in the over-all recti-
linear form. But it is certainly not a case you'd
be proud to claim in the baggage room; it seems
to have been deliberately broken into bits. For
Le Corbusier is not attemjDting to make a single
thing in the direct visual sense. But in a poetic,
harmonic, and rather excitedly mystical way he
is harking back to ancient dogmas of proportion
and rhythm. The whole of La Tourette is
designed on the "Modulor" scale, Le Corbusier's
own measuring device, which is based on the
ancient mathematical proportion known as the
"Golden Section." The Avhole of the three-story
window-wall which looks down the valley is
designed in the proportions of a musical com-
position by a musician-engineer colleague of Le
Corbusier named Xenakis. The process used
is called "Metastasis" by Le Corbusier, who en-
joys nothing better than a quadrisyllable.
Metastasis is a jirocess of transformation and Le
Corbusier no doubt sees this wall transformed
from a number of sticks and sheets of glass into
a fused harmony: One thing.
A similar ]jrocess applied to a more work-
aday building and stripjjed of much of Le
Corbusier's poetry and all of his mysticism, is
seen at work in the Alfred Newton Richan
Medical Research Building at the Universii;
of Pennsylvania (Figure 16). Its architect, Lou
I. Kahn, made no attempt at a suitcase. Nor di
he homogenize all the elements in some sort (
architectural blender. Instead he divided th
bigger elements such as the laboratory areas int
convenient functional sizes. This way they wei
more in scale with small elements such as th
stair towers and the ventilation and plumbin
ducts, which he felt compelled to expose t
public view. Finally, he achieved not a con
posed blend so much as a mixture like a frui!
salad in which everything of relevance to th
job in hand— but nothing more— could still b'
seen fragmented, naked, and identifiable, \\h\\
no separate thing dominated and all wer
subordinated to the total thing. Because thi
approach offers more freedom and flexibilit)
perhaps it also offers the most immediate hopi
to the future of the monolithic movement. Bu
still it is an intensely intellectual aj^proach an(
as such it lacks the essence of all the mon
exciting suitcase conceptions since the Tower o
Babel: the visionar)' Cjuality.
THE DREAM AND THE USI
N A pure case of monolith ism the exact
solution to the building jiroblcm is discovered,
not by any kind of engineer or social scientist,
I
BY ROBIN BOYD
81
not even by a clever designer, but by an inspired
dreamer, instantaneously, in a flash when the
clouds part and all beauty is revealed to him.
That is the nature of a grand monolithic con-
cept; or, rather, that is the desired effect. And
a vision is characteristically a single complete
thing, not a lot of things beautifidly composed,
nor a single thing intellectually analyzed. The
architectural translation of such a vision also will
have the power of instantaneous communication,
and if the message received in a flash does indeed
appear to be highly appropriate for the human
problem of shelter untler consideration, then it
can be judged that the suitcase is likely to be
good architecture. The problem of the visionary
architect, however, is not to seek visions, which
are easy enough to cultivate, but to train him-
self to dismiss irrelevant visions.
It is important for the monolithic movement
to have hope— to look ahead and not over its
shoulder, to remain on the upgrade. For the
indisputable, definable object of all design is
co-ordination: the drawing together of many
related parts into an apparent wholeness, a
singleness of purpose. It is only right and
proper and historically correct that a building
should have a recognizable idea riuining all
through it. And it is exciting and stimulating
when the idea is so vivid that it makes an
immediate, imperative image.
But the key question in judgment remains:
Is the strong, vital image the right one for
the task in hand? Is it fimctionally and struc-
turally logical? Perhaps only those in the know
—the professionals— can answer this; but there
is another question anyone can apply to all these
buildings. Are they emotionally satisfying in
ways that seem appropriate to the occupants
and their duties and their sense of delight? For
architecture is still nothing if not a usefid art
and, very literally, a living art— for li\'ing, that
is, in 1961— and if the image created is not in
accord realistically with the fragment of life
being sheltered, architecture might as well give
over the design of its facades and foyers to
Madison Avenue and be done Avith it.
JOSEPH W. MOl.lTOR
Figure 16. Medical Research Building, University of Pennsylvania; Louis I. Kahn, architect
Harper's Magazine, July 1961
MIRIAM BORGENICHT
TEACHERS COLLEGE:
Aj\ EXTINCT VOLCANO?
Its brightest faculty members call it "a damn
sick institution." But a TC degree is still a passport
to promotion in most school systems.
Miriam Borgenicht has written many magazine
articles and three suspense novels and uill start
teaching English at \ew Rochelle High School this
fall. She is the wife of a Neiv York attorney, Milton
Klein, and the mother of five children. A Barnard
graduate, she enrolled at TC in February 1960,
acquired fifteen points toward a master's degree and
some unexpected light on teacher training. This
article is the result.
MOST empires, as history readers know,
have a way of putting up a strong front
for a considerable time after decay has begun.
This truism conveniently fits the empire called
Teachers College, which presides from its bastion
on the Columbia University campus in New York
City over more sectors of education than some
observers consider quite seemly.
The appearance of strength is in every way im-
pressive. A quarter of the superintendents who
run America's big-city school systems received
graduate training at Teachers College, which is
knoAvn to the trade as TC. Cinrently it is school-
ing their successors, plus plenty of the teachers
and principals who will work under them. Every
autumn six thousand students wait in line at the
registrar's office. Of these more than \.\\o hun-
dred—far more than at any other school of
education— collect the footnotes and unassailable
generalities that compose a doctorate of educa-
tion thesis, thenceforth to sign themselves Ed.D.
In TC classrooms 150 professors draw blackboard
diagrams for courses like "Intergroup Develop-
ment and Organization" and "Education as
Facilitation of Change." .\nd an immeasurable
pile of dociunents goes out across the country,
carrying the Avord that is first discussed at in-
ordinate length in a conference room above
Russell Library.
This power structure, indeed, appears menac-
ing as well as unseemly to some critics. They
blame it for every woe of American parents, from
their sixth-grader's ignorance about the rivers of
83
South America to the rule which keeps their
charming French-born neighbor from teaching
French in the local high school.
In fact, however, both the complaints and the
aura of power are relics of philosophies that were
advanced, and attacked, and sometimes even
abandoned thirty or forty years ago, and what
might be more justly criticized is the failure to
produce new concepts in the past twenty years.
The six thousand students now at TC are more
likely to acquire a vague sympathy for the whole
child than a curriculum that will interest a
whole classroom. To anyone who has taken one
education course, the ground covered in another
Ed course looks all too familiar. And the articles
by and about TC in educational journals usually
sound defensive because someone has to answer
the critics, and no one but the educators seems
to volunteer for the job.
To tune in properly on the thin voice of
Teachers College today one must remember the
aggressive chorus of its lustier years. The simple
business of getting started was no mean feat.
From 1887, when its doors opened to fewer than
a hundred students, it grew steadily for over a
generation. Under the firm ride of Dean James
Russell, it also sold— to the nation and the world
—the idea that teachers ought to know something.
Subsequently, state bureaucracies may have be-
come somewhat inflexibly attached to compulsory
education courses. However, when even the
stanchest TC hater looks at the alternatives— at
such wayward phenomena as the recommenda-
tions of school boards, pupils, or other teachers
—he concedes that academic training of some
kind is the most reasonable basis for hiring or
promoting teachers. No one, it appears, really
wants teachers traveling light; intellectual bag-
gage is very much in order.
MULTIPLICATION VS. MURALS
FO R many years Teachers College provided
much of this baggage in the form of ideas
that, for easy inspection, may be stacked under
D for Dewey. Around 1915 these ideas had con-
siderable carrying power; and American schools
still feel the impact of Dewey's philosophy (em-
phasis on education as active instead of passive,
and on learning as experimentation instead of
imitation) and of Thorndike's psychology (large-
scale achievement and intelligence testing).
TC spoke with many voices in those days. Pro-
fessor Kilpatrick, in one classroom, might argue
that learning should involve purposeful activity
and should begin with a problem that created
interest and cle\cl()ped iniiiati\e. His colleague,
Professor Kandel, might tleclare. on the contrary,
that the schools should jMcpaie students foi' adult
responsibilities through formal training in read-
ing, arithmetic, and the like. After a tortuous
journe) through committees, this debate emerged
as the question of whether fourth-graders should
work on midtiplication or on a mural aliout the
Iroquois; and although, in the 'twenties, a
majority of the TC faculty would have ra\ored
the mural, on this question, as on the problem
of teacher certification, TC long ago ceased be-
ing the sole arbiter. Nonetheless it chc^\■ed over
the old ideas in a ^vay which did tliem little
good; school boards, for instance, that had fol-
lowed TC's advice to invest in movable desks
were likely to lose their enthusiasm when the
same source was still making vigorous attacks on
stationary ones five years later. The progressive-
education movement was finished off l)y AV^orld
War II conservatism, by the rise in social agen-
cies to take over functions that progressives had
wanted in the schools, and by the push to get
into college. When parents start worrying about
College Boards ^viiile their children are in grade
school, an hour \vith maps takes priority over a
"creative" visit to the local fire house.
The TC chorus also carried far during the
'thirties when concern about the social order
accompanied and sometimes superseded concern
about the child it might raise. From the hilltops
of progressive education, vistas of progressive
politics looked agreeable and were duly charted.
In 19.S4 a ne^v course called Education 200F put
compulsory doses of sociology, economics, and
political science into every apprentice teacher's
notebook. There are many variations of 200F
today, and if its content is not entirely new to
some students, they may find solace in the fact
that their predecessors broke new ground.
TC's serenade to the new social order, however,
^vas far from harmonious. "Where did teachers
stand in the class struggle? Was George Counts
correct in saying tliat teachers should formulate
goals for society? \Vhy a Teachers Union? Was
Dean William Russell (son of James) throwing
his considerable weight against left-\\'ingers? Had
Kilpatrick been fired for progressive leanings or
was he due for retirement anyhow? Were Com-
munists taking over the place? \\'ere reaction-
aries taking over the place? Questions like these
shook facult) meetings (as the\ shook mosi meet-
ings in the 'thirties), made fi iends and enemies
across the country, and earned for TC— Irom a
Nar ]'())/< Times rejiorter- a title which it still
clierislies: one big luihappy family.
84
TEACHERS COLLEGE: EXTINCT VOLCANO?
i
Toilay, no one would be likely to use the same
sobriquet. The heated old debates have been re-
placed by a vague malaise. "We're a damn sick
institution," said a young professor recently.
"Ten more years like this and we'll be out of
business," warned a colleague down the hall,
without bothering to lower his voice or close the
door; self-censure does not rate as treason. But
the bright aiul generally young men who hold
such views are a small minority of the faculty and
(hey aic up against its backbone: the masters of
education jargon, the men who shot their bolt
for causes in the 'thirties, the assistants who took
over from the Countses and Kilpatricks and
carved no new niches for themselves. Harping
on the theme of individual personality, they
demonstrate that what is radical for one age can
turn sodden in another. But they have the
strength of numbers.
The TC administration under President Hollis
L. Caswell is still playing the old games like de-
partment reorganization and purpose reappraisal,
and soon it may be too late to do anything else.
Ten years ago, TC could bear the brunt of any-
one's grii)es against the public schools with
stolidity and even relish; perhaps it was indeed
responsible for the slow readers and the bum
sj)ellers, since for over a generation it had sup-
plied a sizable share of the nation's teachers and
curriculums. Today there is competition even
for blame. Training for teachers is now oflered
at twelve hundred assorted universities, liberal-
arts colleges, normal schools, and teachers' col-
leges. The cozy rationale for TC's existence, in
short, is disappearing along with the daring ideas.
"We either move on or move out," said a yoimg
professor the other day. But the only discernible
movement at TC is toward the realignment of
courses in education.
ONE BOOK PER SEMESTER
WH E R E in fact should Teachers College
move? Where should it move to solve
the main problem today: how to lure bright peo-
ple into teaching? A professional school can
handle a shortage in two opposite ways. One
method is to make the preparation appear so
accessible and undemanding that anyone may
take a stab at it. The other way is to invest it
with such qualifications and difficulties and, con-
sequently, glamour that only the superior will
feel eligible. TC adopted the first method thirty
years ago; with few modifications it still prevails.
How does it work? Let us take a look at a
promising young college graduate named John
who, after a year in his father's ladoiy, dec ides
that he wants to become a high-school English
teacher. He enrolls at TC and finds plenty to
choose from. He can, for example, lake hi> j)ick
among Psychology of Early .\dolescence. Psy-
chology of Late Adolescence, Psychology of the
Adult, Psychology of Adjustment, Psychology of
Communication, Psychology of Personalily. Psy-
chology of School Learniiig, Psychology of
Family Relations, and some InuKhed other psy-
chologies. But amid the diversity is a certain
rigidity. For instance, a course grandly called
"Communication and the Comnumication Arts
in the Modern Community" is a ie(juisitc for his
master's. This sounds like material John had
studied in college so he asks if lie may take a test
to exempt him (a not uncommon jiractice in
many schools). The answer is "no" because "the
human relationships involved in a course are as
vital as the subject matter."
Various other trials are in store. John finds
that almost every class accommodates a widely
disparate group: the physical ed major from a
Southern school and the Ivy-League graduate,
the nurse on scholarship from her hospital and
the experienced teacher out for advancement, the
housewife back after fifteen years of reading re-
cipes, and the foreign student whose mastery of
English is not quite up to his spirit. Generally
the pace is geared to the slow student: one book
—and a digest at that— may be a whole semester's
reading requirement.
After a while, John gets used to the effortless
stroke which enables him to swim along with
A's and B's. He is puzzled, however, by an ex-
periment on page 100 of his psychology textbook.
It shows that when restaurant waitresses arc con-
fronted with desserts in two rows, they reach on
tiptoe for those in back; the implication is that
people go after what is hard to get. But at TC,
he finds, the treats are within easy reach of all.
John hears much talk about areas of reference,
societal values, and the purpose of education.
The question, "what is education?", is good for
forty minutes at the start of any course; so is
something known as "constructive discussion of
significant issues."
In his second term John starts student teach-
ing. Under TC's loose system (which is com-
mon to many schools of education) this means
that he observes real classes in a nearby school
for several months, and is in charge of them for
perhaps an equal time. An accomjxmying
seminar at TC is supposed to clarify his ojiinions
and answer his questions.
John's high-school pupils are studying The
BY MIRIAM BORGENICHT
85
Scarlet Letter. He would like help on the follow-
ing: What sort of analysis of the Puritan mind
should properly precede a reading of the book?
How much information about Hawthorne's life
should be expected? How does Hawthorne's
sense of sin compare with our modern sense, and
to what extent is this an appropriate topic for a
bright eleventh grade? What analogous book
would be preferable for a class of more limited
ability? However, a fruitful discussion of these
problems would assume a knowledge of Haw-
thorne, of the Puritan mind, of Salem, and of
eleventh-grade reading lists; it would also ex-
clude those without this knowledge. But exclu-
sion is not the liberal— that is to say, the TC—
way. Instead of learning about high-school cur-
riculums, John finds in a typical seminar that he
must ponder something called a "sociagram,"
which is a diagram showing how students in a
hypothetical high-school class relate to each
other. Susan (as shown by arrows) is not well
liked by either the large groups dominated by
Ellen and Burt or the small one led by Mary.
To scrutinize this, of course, requires nothing
but a general empathy. One seminar student
identifies with Bint; another contributes a
poignant speculation about Mary. No one men-
tions the fact that, in most high schools, deans
or guidance experts— for better or worse— now do
the counseling, or that, indeed, a teacher who in-
terfered in the social life of sixteen-year-olds
would be a dead duck. A spirit of good will
pervades the seminar. Everyone has an opinion
about whether Susan's rejected state may inter-
fere with her performance on tests. More arrows
are drawn to delineate high-school cliques; the
student teachers obediently copy these into note-
books. John, meanwhile, finds himself thinking
that perhaps he wants to run the family nut-and-
bolt factory after all.
IS IT HARD TO GET IN?
WOULD John have found the same limp
procedures at all schools of education?
Generally, yes. In an attempt to change matters,
the Ford Foundation two years ago gave a lordly
$15,478,000 to nineteen graduate teacher-training
schools: S2,800,000 went to Harvard; $2,400,000
to the University of Chicago; $800,000 to Cornell;
$1,047,000 to Brown; $900,000 to Stanford; and
$600,000 to George Peabody College in Ten-
nessee. These are very different institutions, but
they are in accord on one major point: that for
the potential teacher, the best soft sell may well
be a year of hard grind.
To accomplish this, they have, first, tightened
admission standards; as a result, many of them
now have more applicants than they can handle
for the M.A. in teaching. Second, they have es-
tablished close ties with nearby school systems.
In Los Angeles, for instance, the city schools help
screen candidates for the University of Southern
California School of Education and agree to hire
them after training. There is similar rapport at
Central Michigan University, Bucknell, and
Cornell.
Pay has also been used as a lure for student
teachers, who are sometimes called interns. It
varies from $1,750 paid to Harvard students by
Newton and Lexington public schools, to $1,275
(one-semester substitute's pay) for a few trainees
at George Peabody. University of Chicago in-
terns are paid in proportion to the amount of
teaching they do. At Stanford the classroom
teacher who supervises the interns pockets an
extra check. Diverse as they arc, these devices
all add to the attractiveness of teacher training
and help make it a real rather than a textbook
experience.
As a natural corollary, lots of the education
textbooks have bitten the dust. Stanford cut its
methods course requirement from forty-two
points to thirty-four. At Harvard's School of
Education, students are taking more than ten
times as many courses in the college faculty of
arts and sciences as they did in the early 'fifties.
In fact, according to Dean Kcppel, practically
all courses are now in subject matter rather than
in methods. A decent respect has thus been
fostered between the university and the school
of education; liberal-arts professors look a lot
more tolerantly on the education student once
they are able to put him through their own de-
manding paces.
At Teachers College, however, such promising
innovations have made few inroads. Admissions
policy was mildly modified last spring, wlien a
"B" average in college was made an entrance
requirement. But differences in colleges and
loopholes for "prior field experience" still allow
great latitude. Though Teachers College Dean
John Fischer (a former Baltimore School Super-
intendent who was appointed last year) com-
mends tight standards, he also takes shelter under
the TC tradition of never turning away anyone
who wants help. Isn't it a fact, he asks, that for
teaching certain groups, the fellow who just
squeaked through a small Arkansas college may
be just as good a bet as a cum laitde from Am-
herst? Tempering any inclination to put up
barriers is the perverse fact that TC enrollment
86
TEACHERS COLLEGE: EXTINCT VOLCANO?
has declined anyhow -from 8,483 in 1959 to 7,829
in 1960, for the combined spring and winter ses-
sions. (Summer sessions add another few thou-
sand.) Dr. Fischer hopefully ascribes this slump
to the low birth rate in the 'thirties, but other
schools are not so afflicted.
Thus one is led to suspect that a liberal ad-
missions policy may be dictated less by ideology
than by poverty. This is an old story at TC
though it is seldom told; an institution with
empty coffers, like a girl with an empty date
book, suffers from unpopidarity. TC's finances
are complicated by all manner of special grants
and funds for assorted research and publication
projects. However, tuition fees supply at least
three-quarters of the "instructional" budget and
in consequence almost anyone with a tuition
check in hand is welcome. Those who would like
TC to become the Harvard of education must
reckon with the fact that it lacks Harvard's
financial cushion. Nor is its own hard seat at the
bargaining table likely to be eased. Though
some endowment money trickles in, notably from
the Carnegie and the Kellogg foundations, grants
are usually earmarked for special purposes such
as teacher education in Africa. This spring, to
be sure, Procter and Gamble gave $15,000 with-
out attached strings, but this rare kind of unre-
stricted largess is hardly enough to buy acous-
tical tile for a couple of reconditioned classrooms.
The big money the Ford Foundation gave to
nineteen colleges was for a major shake-up in
their programs; it is well known that no real
shake-up will get past the main desk at TC.
Short of money, TC is also hobbled by lack of
a link with the New York City public schools or
any others. This was not always the case. Over
the years, TC has had five affiliated demonstra-
tion schools. The most noteworthy was Lincoln,
which merged with Horace Mann in 1940 and
was closed nine years later because it was felt to
have outlived its usefulness. Lincoln, in fact,
was demonstrating that progressive methods ap-
plied by first-rate teachers to the selected children
of privileged families turn out a superior prod-
uct, to no one's surprise. However, there grew
to be less and less connection between what went
on at Lincoln, where a "slow learner" might
have an IQ of 110, and most of the school sys-
tems (Denver or Kansas City, for example) that
tried to benefit from it. The decision to close
Lincoln was denounced angrily, in and out of the
courts, by parents and onlookers. But by and
large they missed the point: the disaster was not
that Lincoln folded but that nothing replaced it.
TC today has no campus school where a pro-
fessor may take his students, or his ideas, or even
himself. No channels— like those in Cambridge
or California— have been opened up to neighbor-
ing classrooms. Communication is a big word in
the catalogue, but TC has no working variety of
it with school superintendents and principals in
its own back yard.
Though Dean Fischer urges teachers to under-
stand "the great diversity of pupils across the
country," TC courses offer few glimpses of the
Harlem public schools five blocks away. This
remoteness led a Brooklyn teacher to comment
sardonically on a lecture on visual aids. "I'd just
like to see that professor in my class," she said.
"The boys are squirting ink. The girls are busy
with the old make-up. And someone's using the
kind of words you don't find in the manuals.
What would he do about it?"
To be sure, not all the professors are happy at
their alienated blackboards. "If we want to blaze
new trails we should be working with the Puerto
Rican children," says Professor Lawrence Cremin,
who heads the Social and Philosophical Founda-
tions Department. "These children sit at a third
of the desks in New York City schools. Their
language and behavior problems would give us
plenty to hack our way through." Professor
James McClellan, who teaches philosophy with a
Texas accent, is equally driven toward public-
school teaching. "I despise it, I hate it, but I
ought to be doing it. I need someone to give me
a push." Acting without the push is Professor
George Bereday, who teaches social studies once
a week in a nearby suburban junior high school.
CASTING IMITATION PEARLS
BY A N D large, however, TC puts its main
trust in the methods course. This category
ranges, roughly, from Philosophical Foundations,
which may consider Rousseau, Locke, or Dewey,
or Psychological Foundations, which examines
theories of learning, to the methods course
proper, which tells how to set up a high-school
physics experiment. "Philosophic" and "psy-
chological" courses are often criticized as being
on a rather simple undergraduate level. But it
is the practical methods course that Jacques
Barzun had in mind when he said that its total
substance "could be given in fifteen minutes of
casual conversation between an older man and a
younger, both interested in the same subject."
Common to all the methods courses is the
stupefaction engendered by familiarity. Anyone
who has taken Psychology of Adjustment may
well have easy sailing in Psychology of the Adult.
BY MIRIAM BORGENICHT 87
Two courses which deal with methods of teach-
ing folk songs may be even less strenuous. Mean-
while the arguments go on, as the educators
grope, like Pythagoras, for a formula that will
solve everything. Should the curriculum be 40
per cent method, 60 per cent subject? ("Subject"
is a course, usually at Columbia, in which one
pursues his special academic interest or field of
subject matter.) How about 65/45? Suppose
method is only 30 per cent? But a drastic cut in
methods courses would be a blow to professors
who are not equipped to teach anything else,
and on this front they maintain an understand-
ably stern vigil. Though Dean Fischer deplores
courses which "needlessly duplicate each other,"
he simultaneously reminds students how lucky
they are to have such a wide choice. The hun-
dreds of methods courses, it would appear, are
in the catalogue to stay.
Nor does TC's odd alliance with Columbia
seem headed for any great change. Back in 1915,
some people— notably President Nicholas Murray
Butler— wanted TC merged with Columbia.
Others thought it should be disassociated com-
pletely. Still others— led by Dean James Russell
—favored a "sovereign state" within the Univer-
sity. Since Russell won, TC is on its own
financially; students pay tuition by the point
system and TC pockets the fees from its own
courses.
In contrast to this straightforward fiscal rela-
tionship is the uneasy intellectual one. The late
Irwin Edman expressed the extreme position
when he called TC the place where imitation
pearls are cast before real swine. Today his
successors are less vitriolic and though many
share Barzun's views, there are signs of a milder
climate. This year, for instance, Professors
Bereday, Cremin, Hu, Hunt, Kershner, Kimball,
Watson, and Wayland are cross-listed in the
University catalogue, a sign that other graduate
schools consider their courses meaty enough to
give credit for them. But such hands-across-the-
street gestures are rare. From Columbia, the
120th Street landscape still seems dominated by
duplicative courses of meager content. And no
TC inhabitant inspires less respect at the Uni-
versity than the Ed.D. candidate. Although TC
administrators talk bravely about the Ed.D. as
"the best hope for new ideas and serious re-
search," many dissertations remain on the level
of "The Care and Location of the Pencil Sharp-
ener." The demand for the Ed.D., of course,
continues high. Teachers need degrees to be-
come principals or, later, superintendents.
School boards feel that Ed.D.s on the faculty
prove something important. Taxpayers find in
them a reason to vote for bond issues. But uni-
versity faculties are less impressed. The Ed.D.
may not seem to them like much of an academic
trophy until it entails an obstacle course at least
as tough as the one they set up for a Ph.D. This
is not likely to happen soon. President Caswell
keeps on promising "re-examination of the doc-
toral program" in nearly every TC report. But
there is no real commitment to change anything.
Commitments, indeed, are in short order. The
frank admission followed by the discreet with-
drawal is the habitual stance. "It is quite pos-
sible," Dean Fischer said recently, "that we shall
have to distinguish between that part of our
effort which involves service to all who need our
help and the other part which has to do with
preparing the most qualified leaders for the most
responsible posts in education." He adds, how-
ever, that TC cannot be expected to sort out its
sprawling student body as many smaller schools
have done. The excuse is unconvincing; to those
who scan TC's list of courses in techniques of
testing, it seems ironic that some of these can't
be applied at home.
Perhaps it is even tragic. For all the gripes
against it, TC has also earned respect and grati-
tude. Over a long period it backed up almost
anyone taking a bold stand in education. The
educators who wanted pictures in the classrooms,
or who tried to find the disturbed child early, or
who inquired why children learned at different
speeds, or who thought math teachers should
comprehend the League of Nations, or who said
youngsters learned more if they were happy, or
who hired a school psychologist— all these in-
novators in their day could count on reinforce-
ments from TC.
But the frontier has shifted, and despite the
many different ideas about how to run schools
and pay for them, everyone is agreed that today's
crisis concerns our desperate need for superior
teachers. Everyone is also worried by the dour
corollary— that teachers come from the bottom of
the academic heap. Faced with this deadlock,
TC— long the nation's main training ground
for teachers— offers no inducements compelling
enough to attract the bright graduates of Colum-
bia or any other college. Unwilling or unpre-
pared to cut its losses, TC still deals out bland
liberality that was good enough twenty and fifty
years ago. The loss is a national one. American
education today needs plenty of powerhouses,
and it is good news to no one when the oldest
and most dependable of these no longer seems
able to get up steam.
Harper's Magazine, July 1961
PUBLIC &: PERSONAL
WILLIAM S. WHITE
Old Junior's Progress — From Prep School to Severance Pay
A post-commencement tribute to the
Younger Generation, Male, by a kindly
but fed-up observer of the Limp Genera-
tion . . .
W A S H I N G T O N-W h i 1 e our
young graduates are still atingle
from the unearned and usually non-
sensical tributes paid to them by
middle-aged commencement speak-
ers, this might be a good time to
tell off the younger generation, male.
In kindly and avuncular sunmiary,
I find them (on the whole) a dis-
tressingly poor lot— moderately dis-
pleasing at the best and positive
stinkers at the worst. II I were a
newspaper city editor, I would not
willingly hire any lellow under thirty
without a searching investigation. If
I were an adviser to the Peace Corps,
I should be most suspicious of those
fresh-faced lads who wish to go off to
Kenya awash with brotherhood.
And if I were a trustee of an insti-
tution of higher learning I would try,
against all the odds, to put some guts
into its faculty, and a couple of ad-
ditional courses into its curriculum.
One of these would be instruction in
manners. Another would be some
drill in what used to be common
appreciation for one's elders— not
because they are elders, but because
they are now being forced to bear an
unconscionable load of work and
responsibility. Only the wealth is
being shared by the youngsters; the
burden remains exclusively the priv-
ilege of the grownups.
Let's face it, the kids are running
hog-wild. Much has gone into the
development of this correspondent's
tired, fed-up malice in this matter.
For a starter, here is an episode
which illustrates with pristine clarity
some of the things that are Avrong
with American youth, male.
Recently I received a letter from a
"Mr." So-and-so who briskly de-
manded my aid— and time— on a pro-
ject for his course in journalism.
(Unhappily, the most unpleasing
qualities in the younger generation
seem to be most prevalent among
boys and girls taking either journa-
lism or political science). My cor-
respondent required me to answer
twenty questions which he had posed
to help prepare himself for his chosen
career as a magazine writer.
No man, not even one so churlish
as I, would rightly grumble if some
of his queries were impossible to re-
ply to— as for example: "How long
does it take to get to the top?" But,
I submit, the mushiest old pater-
familias would find his temperature
rising as this letter went on.
For as I read, it began to be borne
in uj)on me that an extraordinarily
high percentage of the questions
dealt, not with writing or reporting
techniques or other points of pro-
fessional interest, but raiher with
matters which one might reasonably
suppose could be left to chance and
merit and to a considerably later
point in the life of my correspondent.
"What is the average salary of a
magazine reporter? And at the he-
ginning?
"What are the sick benefits and
unemployment benefits in this pro-
fession?
"What is the retirement ase?
"Is this profession under Social
Security?"
As my aging eyes fell upon this
row of querulous queries— hardly full
of that gallantry, that ardent spirit of
youth-on-the-march— my mind went
a bit blank. I looked again at the
accompanying letter in the belief
that those eyes had tricked me and
that I had received a communication
from a man of sixty-five whose ar-
teries were beginning to harden and
whose spirit was reaching out for the
prospect of rest.
But no; there it was. The letter
was from a boy in the sophomore
year of high school.
^ Now, I do not argue that this is
the common approach to life of to-
day's younger male generation. But
I do say that it is far more nearly
common than ordinary logic would
suppose. I base this bleak judgment
not upon subjective reason, but on
actual evidence accumulated over the
years. As a syndicated newspaper :
columnist, as well as a columnist for
Harper's, I get a great deal of mail,
and a good proportion of it is from
the young. I am, moreover, more
than usually exposed to communica-
tions from students of journalism
and political science.
You may take my word for it that
these inquiries are almost invariably
innocent of any graciousness of tone
I often have the feeling that I am |
to consider myself fortunate to have
been addressed in the first place; that
I should not shilly-shally about re-
plying; and that my uninhibited cor-
respondent would not think of
uttering anything warmer than al
sour treble-grunt of thanks. He;,,
would never be caught dead saying;
"Sir."
Many a time I have been com
manded by an aspirant for one de
gree or another to put aside m^
trifling personal tasks and, in effect
to write his thesis for him. On(
young person offering me this op
por'
pap
He
wlii
boo:
proi
rept
(lriv(
1war(
ev
T
spen
schoi
wav
have
male
live,
disci
we ,1
ofth
the
socie
relat
Bi
ligur,
emer
in ii
since
ness,
tan- 1
fduc
train
Whe,
iluii,
hini,
jortunity had been assigned to do a
paper in connection with the Senate.
He observed to me, in passing, that
vvhile he understood I had written a
pook about the Senate, he did not
oropose to read it: I would under-
>tand, of course, that he was busy.
Moreover he already knew he would
lot agree with the book, anyhow.
THE MOONING ACE
NEARLY all of us know fathers
md mothers who are trying desper-
itely to cope with this sort of oaf:
i^e is in his twenties, at an age
Allien we used to think in this coun-
ry (as most people in Europe still
hink) that a chap was a man if
le was ever going to be. But this
ellow remains obdurately a most
epellent little boy. Though long
fince eligible to shave and vote, he
nust be cosseted endlessly by his
h iven parents. Except for him and
lis boyish demands, they would by
low be materially solvent and spirit-
lally able to enjoy those small re-
vards of travel and relaxation which
hey have well earned.
This fellow is a common type. He
pent his years in prep school or high
chool mooning about in that drippy
!vay which we wrongly tend to as-
lociate with the girls of his age. (In
)lain truth, the girls are a different
Old a happier breed altogether. They
lave far more gumption than the
nales, more manners and perspec-
ive, more common sense and self-
Uscipline. If, as many people think,
ve Americans have long been living
inder a matriarchy, one thing is
ure: the present younger generation
)f the American male will not redress
he balance. It well may be that
\ ithin ten or fifteen years the present
lominance of the female in adult
ociety will be seen in retrospect as
elatively a golden age of manhood.)
But to return to my male type-
igure. Having some time ago
imerged from prep or high school
n incorrupted ignorance, he has
ince put in years of a dreary aimless-
less. Somehow or another, the mili-
ary had him for a while: a "trainee,"
eluctant at the beginning and un-
rained, in every sense, at the end.
A^hen this Sad Sack period of am-
biguous service had wound to its
lull close, the military had returned
jiim, with relief, to his parents— who
persisted in being doting parents,
there being not much else to do.
They went about frantically try-
ing to get him into some college. He
had, of course, held out for Yale or
Harvard or Princeton, or some other
institution high in cost and stand-
ards. His marks did not remotely
qualify him for such a school; nor
did his true interest, or what the
educators call his "motivation." Ac-
tually he had pitched his desire upon
an Ivy League college (one cannot
say his "ambition," for ambition is
one of the many things which he has
not got) because he thought this
would be a smart place to go to,
where he could drive about in his
convertible with the top down.
Now this sort of "motivation"
would not be vastly amiss— in a boy.
But remember that this hardy adoles-
cent is past twenty-one. And if all
goes well he might conceivably be in
position to shift for himself by the
time he is, say, thirty-three.
HE FINDS BLISS
WHEN the inevitable happens and
all the big colleges say No, he is
shipped off to some cow college which
will open its doors to all who can
read (plus a lot who can't). Then
the rather pathetic little plot begins
to thicken. For Old Junior suddenly
decides that he must be married, per-
haps because the television ads show-
ing domestic bliss among the cleaning
fluids and car-washing materials have
put him into a strongly romantic
frame of mind.
"Daddy"— this will remain Old
Junior's term for his father long after
Old Junior himself has fathered
several entrants to the family line— is
quietly apoplectic. Mother (and,
ultimate horror, she in many cases
is still "Mommy" to Old Junior) is
aghast. They have been driven to the
wall, emotionally and financially, by
providing simply for Old Junior him-
self. Now they must somehow find
the money— and the moral strength
—to launch his wedding, complete
to the flowers. Of course, they
ought to call in their son and say:
"Now look here, Old Junior,
enough is enough, and in this in-
stance there has been too much al-
ready. We wish you well as our child
—though, frankly, we could wish, too,
that you had not insisted on remain-
ing a child so very long. But this
is how it is. Old Junior. Regretfully
we must tell you to go to hell. If
there is any more college for you,
you will pay for it. If there is to be
a marriage for you, you will pay for
that, too. If you intend to found a
family you will be responsible for
and pay for that family, too. Old
Junior, this is where you get off the
gravy train; or, to be more exact,
this is where you descend from the
lollipop express. Why don't you go
ahead now and just get a job in a
filling station?"
But Daddy and Mommy will not
take this Spartan course. Instead,
Daddy will grit his teeth (which
should have been looked after long
ago but were not because Old Junior
was, at the time, in the Army and
required a weekly check to supple-
ment his military earnings). He will
go out and add a mortgage to the two
or three he is already carrying.
Mommy will again pass up the coat
she thought she might be able at
last to buy, and she will tear up the
folders about Bermuda.
So they will usher Old Junior into
the wedded state with wistful fan-
fare—and their troubles will begin
to multiply. The apartment they had
found for Old Junior and Mrs. Old
Junior (and one must pity this hap-
less girl) will very shortly be too
small or otherwise not suitable. A
bigger apartment— and a bigger re-
mittance to Old Junior— will then
follow.
Whatever Daddy and Mommy do,
however, to make Old Junior com-
fortable in his academic pursuits, it
will turn out to have been too little.
Old Junior's growing family will in-
terfere with his intellectual life, and
the kindly college of his non-choice
will begin to murmur that even its
standards Old Junior is failing to
meet. He will switch from a major
in one of the arcane subjects like
history to a major in, say, the man-
agement of hotel barber shops.
But however Old Junior twists and
turns and works and works at his
studies (sometimes two or three
whole hours a week), he will in-
creasingly need help. The Dean will
join Daddy and Mommy in his line
of support; and other hands will be
enlisted. At length, these hands will
include those of a Marriage Counse-
lor, summoned to help Straighten
How to achieve a youthful body and
vibrant health-without tiring exercises
th juM ten unittute^ a 4a^!
LOOK BETTER, FEEL BETTER
By Bess M. Meiisendieck, M.D.
Foreword by Paul B. Magnuson, M.D.,
Chairman of the President's Committee on the Health Needs of the Nation
Gloria Swanson, Fredric March, Jascha Heifetz, Ingricl
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Easy-to-follow drawings and
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Step-by-step functional move-
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. . . flatten the abdomen . . . take
inches off hips and waist . . . correct
aching feet . . . banish double chin
. . . tune up chest muscles . . . re-
lieve fatigue and nervous tension.
Test yourself . . .
A revealing self-test permits you
to discover your particular weak-
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how to overcome them.
Different from ordinary
exercises . . .
The Mensendieck system is
wholly different from ordinary ex-
ercises. The exertion and perspira-
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ments included in LOOK BETTER,
FEEL BETTER. Here is your guide
to a happy life, a constant sense of
well-being, and freedom from the
laxness imposed by modern-day liv-
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' — Ten Days' FREE Examination —
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51 East 33rd St., New York 16
Gentlemen: Please send me LOOK BFH-
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Which of these chapters
can help you?
• Comfort for the Feet
• Reduce the Buttock Area
• Flatten the Abdomen
• Strengthen the Bock
• Square the Shoulders
• Increase Your Breathing Capacity
• Slenderize the Waistline
• End Backache
• Reduce the Thighs and Abdomen
• Sculpture the Chest
• Abolish Double Chin
• Slenderize the Hips
• Sculpture the Upper Back
• Strengthen the Ankles and Feet
• Mold the Arms
• Limber the Knee Joints
• Shape the Legs
• Strengthen the Feet
• Combined Movement Schemes
Enthusiastic Praise for
the Mensendieck System
"1 can hf-artily endorse the exercises as
having worked jireat good for many of
my patients." From the foreword by
Paul B, Magnuson, M.D.
"The (Jaims .set fortli for thi^ iujok are
so uiiorlliodox it is well that Dr. Men-
sendieek's ideas eoine liighly recoin-
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wanjs for llie reader seem large for the
minimal fllorl re((uired l)\ Dr. Mensen-
(lirik - llicoriis of hodily movement."
— TEMIH) MA<;A/LNE
"Anyone interested in reducing, posture
imtirovement or simidy in< rea-ed grace
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DE.MOrKAT.CIIHONICI-E
i
PUBLIC & PERSONAL
Out Old Junior— although Old Jun-
ior, characteristically, will think thatj.
this lady has come into the menage
to Straighten Out the deplorable
maladjustments of Mrs. Old Junior.
Mrs. Old Junior by this time will
begin to wonder whether it is all
worthwhile. And sometiines, right in
front of Old Junior, she will ex-
change wordless glances of quiet |
ineaning with Old Junior's Daddy"
and Mommy. So it will all wind up,
of course, in divorce. Mrs. Old Junior
will go to work, but she will not be
able— because she has had no train-
ing—to take care alone of the three
or four children magnanimously left
in her care by Old Junior. Daddy and
Mommy will come forward again—
and again.
HE WRITES A LETTER
OLD JUNIOR himself will move
into the fraternity house, an enigma-
tic elderly figure of domestic tragedy
to the sophomores there in residence;
but still a Little Boy to himself. He
will now complete his intellectual
training. And when the time comes
for the preparation of his thesis upon
the Management of Certain Types
of Barber Shops, he will bestir him- \
self mightily and find the name and
address of some suitable professional
adviser. His eye will fall upon some
unfortunate Master Barber; and he
will then briskly privilege this citizen
with orders to put down his shears,
lock his shoj) doors, and "help" Old
Junior to write the thesis which will
establish his bona fides, vindicate his
long search for knowledge, and de-
dare him at last to be a Man. And
])()or Old Junior will say to himself
— just as he is telephoning Daddy to
be sure to make hiin an appointment
with those who employ masters in
I he an of the management of barber
shops— that it has been a long hard
way uj) but that now, by God, he has
made it at last.
Daddy and Mommy, too, can now
leel some sense of (|ualified relaxa-
tion—until the day, that is, when
Old Junior's einj)loyer incontinently
and ungenerously hurls him out
upon the public streets. His cats will
be lull of the boss's maledictions but
his pocket will be soothed by the
boss's (li((k lor severance pay and a
booklti on how to a|)ply for tuicm-
ployment compensation.
I
the new
BOOKS
PAUL PICKREL
Summer Fiction: Steinbeck, Silone,
and Some Women on the Loose
RUNNING through all of John Stein-
beck's career as a novelist is an uneasy and
unresolved debate about the nature of man.
In some of his hook^— Cannery Row and Siveet
Thursday are obvious examples— he sees man as
essentially a biological organism like another,
innocently helping himself to whatever he needs
to make life bearable and enjoyable without re-
gard to the rules of conduct laid down by society,
which is portrayed as deserving whatever mulct-
ing it gets. In such books Steinbeck is the sym-
pathetic, amused, but largely detached observer,
looking upon his characters with a benign, for-
giving smile such as one might turn upon a
bunch of puppies playfully chewing up a shoe,
as long as the shoe belongs to somebody else.
But alongside the biologist-observer there is
another Steinbeck who sees man as a moral
being, a being whose actions constitute signifi-
cant choices between right and wrong. This
Steinbeck is capable of indignation, of outrage,
and his masterpiece is The Grapes of Wrath.
In only one book, the story of a strike pub-
lished twenty-five years ago, In Dubious Battle,
Steinbeck arranged a confrontation of sorts be-
tween his two views of man; one of the main
characters in that book is a passive but sym-
pathetic observer of the action, a young doctor
who is ready to help the sick or wounded strikers
with his professional skill but who otherwise
refuses to participate; the other is an activist,
the leader of the strike, a man convinced that
society is wrong and that he must do some-
thing to attempt to set it right. The debate be-
tween the two remains inconclusive, as it seems
to have remained in Steinbeck's own mind,
though over the years the attitude of the young
doctor has tended to predominate.
Steinbeck's new book. The Winter of Our
Discontent (Viking, $4.50), is the work of Stein-
beck the moralist. The main character is a man
named Ethan Allen Hawley, a veteran of the
second world war who lives in an old seaport
town on the Long Island coast. He is happily
married and has a son and daughter in their
early teens; his family had once been rich and
influential but his father dissipated most of
the family fortune and what little remained
Hawley himself lost in an unsuccessful business
venture after the war, and now he works as a
clerk in a grocery store. Of the family's past
greatness there remain only a fine house that
Hawley still lives in, an assortment of family
mementos, and a vague community awareness
that the Hawleys were once people of conse-
quence in the town.
At the outset of the story, Hawley is content
enough with his lot; he is willing to go without
a car and a television set and other conveniences
and marks of status because he enjoys being an
honest man who does a humble job conscien-
tiously. But all around him he sees other men
cheating and lying in various picayune, semilegal,
or illegal ways to get ahead, and he begins to
wonder if he is not a fool to refrain from doing
the same. Then when a local banker offers him
the chance to come in on a real estate deal, he
decides to take a vacation from strict morality
long enough to accumulate a stake and re-estab-
lish his family fortunes. Soon he is up to his
neck in a series of shady but ingenious schemes
to get money without working for it, and the plot
is made up of the working out of these schemes.
In the end Hawley realizes that success of
the sort he has gone after carries a moral price
that is for him exorbitant. This realization is
borne in upon him largely by what hapjjens to
his own son. The boy, a pure opportunist with
none of his father's scruples, has won :i prize
for an essay on "The Spirit of America," and as
a consequence is well on his way to becoming
a television star when it is discovered that he
has actually cribbed the essay from the speeches
of various past great Americans that he has
found among the family books in the attic.
In one respect Steinbeck's morality has under-
92
THE NEW BOOKS
gone a profound change. In the earlier books
that he wrote as a novelist, books like In Dubious
Battle and The Grapes of U'ratli, he Avrote as
if from outside society, and the good men were
men fighting for change, for something new.
But The Winter of Our Discontent is a deeply
conservative book; the good man is now the
preserver of the best in an inherited tradition;
his task is to hand on that best to his progeny.
In a way Steinbeck the passive observer of life
and Steinbeck the moralist have merged, be-
cause the moral man has become the man who
is aware of the chicanery and double-dealing
around him but who quietly lives his own hum-
ble life by his own principles. Such, presum-
al)ly, is the true "spirit of America."
But if Steinbeck has at least partially suc-
ceeded in merging or reconciling his two views
of man in Tlie Winter of Our Discontent, he
has not succeeded in finding the right style to
do it in. The book has the tone and atmosphere
of lighthearted suburban domestic comedy, quite
inappropriate to the seriousness of the theme
or of some of the events. At one point, for in-
stance, Hawley plans to rob a bank as part of his
vacation from morality, but the whole incident
has about it an air of wild improvisation and
improbability that keep the reader from taking
it seriously; he knows as he reads that somehow
our hero will not commit the robbery as surely
as he knows in watching an old Harold Lloyd
comedy that our hero will not fall ofT the twen-
tieth-story ledge. And, rather typically, the situ-
ation is resolved not through any exploration
of the morality of robbing banks, any failure
of courage or triumph of nobility, but through
the all-too-pat fairy-godmothcrish arrival of an-
other character.
In sum the novel seems too often to be an
example of the very qualities that it deplores.
The plot is so full of clever devices and ingenious
tricks that the moral issues become lost or muted
or glossed over; the situations presented ought
to lead to a searching of the soul but usually
they are resolved by slick contrivance. Explicitly
in his story Steinbeck has pointed a moral about
the spirit of America; imj^licitly, by his way of
telling his story, he has peihaps pointed another.
ACROSS THE BORDER
THE Italian novelist Igna/.io Silone is also
(oncerned with the relation between private
morality and society; indeed this subject has
occupied him in his novels niiuh more con-
sistently than it has Steinbeck, in his new book,
The Fox and the C^amellias (Haiper, S.S..50),
Silone's main character is a middle-aged Social-
ist named Daniele, a Swiss who li\cs just over
the bonier from Italy.
Daniele is involved in a pl(»l against the- Italian
goverrirnc:nt (the lime (A tlic luutk is luvct < l(;irly
indicated, but apparently it is the period of Mus-
solini's dictatorship), and his chief accomplice in
the plot is a bold and sturdy young man named
Agostino, who not only shares Daniele's political
ideas but hopes to become a member of his family
through marriage to Daniele's elder daughter
Silvia.
But the Italian government is aware of what is
going on so near its border, and it sends an agent
into Switzerland to uncover the plot. This agent
attempts to work through an old seamstress who
because of her work goes into the houses of the
leading citizens of the comminiity and is there-
fore able to pick up gossip about what is afoot.
She is also particularly vulnerable to intimida-
tion because she is in fact an Italian citizen who
can be deported if the authorities are alerted to
her status. In her distress at the role of spy that is
being forced upon her, the old seamstress turns
to Daniele to help her out, and he alerts his
aide and supposed future son-in-law Agostino
to keep an eye on the Italian agent, with the re-
sult that Agostino beats up the agent within an
inch of his life.
But then a reversal sets in. The seriously in-
jured Italian agent takes refuge in a farmhouse,
pretending that he has been hurt in an automo-
bile accident, and the farmhouse happens to be
Daniele's. There, in her father's absence, Silvia,
the betrothed of Agostino, nurses the young
Italian back to life, and they proceed to fall in
love with each other. It is not until he is ready
to leave the house that the Italian agent goes into
Silvia's father's study and discovers from the
books and documents there that the girl he loves
is the daughter of the leader of the very group
of plotters that he has come to S^\■itzerland to
destroy. In his anguish at the discovery of the
conflict between his personal feelings for Silvia
and his political loyalty to the regime that her
father opposes, the young man commits suicide,
and the book ends.
The point of all this seems to be that in any
political conflict there are men capable of a
mixture of nobility and baseness on both sides—
in using his great strength to rough up the Italian
agent, Agostino is doing ^vhal he thinks is right,
though it is a brutal act; in his horror at the
conflict bet^veen his jiersonal and public loyal-
ties, the young Italian commits suicide, an act
both desperate and brave. The symbolism of
Silone's title is o|Kn to a number of interpre-
tations, but the fox seems to represent the
public, political violence and division that link
behind and constantly threaten the Iragiant
tenderness of jx-rsonal relationships.
On the whole. The Fox and the Cainellias is
a curiously flat little stor\. Probabh the Italian
original has a certain amount of low-keyed com-
edy and wannih that tend to be lost in the
somewhat stilted translation of peasant speech.
But however ih.il may be, llie book falls some-
Suirimer reading
from\?king
-^
A SEVERED HEAD
by Iris Murdoch
"A tour de force.... There can be few novelists on
either side of the Atlantic with her verbal lucidity
. . . few, if any, in England who can match her in her
chosen field of describing the play of personal rela-
tionships with such a sure sense of the congruous
and incongruous."
— R. A. FRASER, San Francisco Chronicle $3.95
A BURNT- OUT CASE
by Graham Greene
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A SHOOTING STAR
by Wallace Stegner
His big new novel! The story of a California doctor's
rich young wife whose first misstep has explosive
consequences. "Unusually sensitive and perceptive,
rich in drama, humor and compassion."
—Book Buyer s Guide $5.00
THE WINTER OF
OUR DISCONTENT
by John Steinbeck
immediate best-seller! "The finest thing John Stein-
beck has written since The Grapes of Wrath."
—LEWIS GANNETT $4.50
A MONTH OF SUNDAYS
by Louis Kronenberger
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reader, viz.: a deliriously funny evening.... A gem
of classic farce, a brilliant literary feat— in fact, a
godsend!"— DAWN powell, New York Post $3,75
FIND THE BOY
by»W. H. Canaway
"An original, fascinating, and beautifully literate^
adventure story. . , , Readers in search of first-rate and
sometimes nerve-racking entertainment are urged
to proceed to the nearest bookstore for a copy."
—DAN wiCKENDEN, N. Y. Herald Tribune $3.75
CHINA COURT
by Rumer Godden
Great best-seller! "An entrancing novel by one of
the most sensitive and original of contemporary
writers. ... Its rewards are rich and many."
—JOHN MASON BROWN,
Book-of-the-Month Club News $4.50
THE HUNTER
DEEP IN SUMMER
by Edward Loomis
This vividly told novel has the mystery and court-
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as a brilliant trial lawyer's crusade for social justice
turns into a suspenseful journey of self -disco very.
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ACROSTICKLERS
by Henry Allen
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rHEWlKING PRESS, NevV«rk22,N.Y.
94
where between the simplicity of a
table and the complexity of a novel,
without quite achieving the virtues
of either. The characters are so
lightly sketched that the reader
hardly knows them well enough to
(are greatly about what happens to
them; the plot is clumsy, and the
j)oint it makes is scarcely new.
THE HANDSOME
ENGLISHMAN
Jimmy Riddle, by Ian Brook (Put-
nam, S3. 95) is a novel about con-
temporary politics that approaches
its subject with remarkably little
ambiguity, though the j^oint of view
it espouses so clearly and emphati-
cally is noAV unpopular and will
strike many readers as old-fashioned
if not downright reactionary.
The scene is an African kingdom
called Alabasa, which will not be
found on any map, at least not un-
der that name. The nominal and in
many ways the actual rider is a
hereditary chieftain, the Balabasa of
Alabasa, a man deeply learned in
the ancient wisdom of his people and
committed to their ancestral cults,
\et with quite enough aw;ireness of
the modern world to be deeply con-
cerned about the ^\ay it is encroach-
ing on his kingdom. His colleague in
rule and best friend is the local Brit-
ish District Commissioner (for Ala-
basa is part of a British colony),
jimmy Riddle.
Riddle is the sort of colonial ad-
ministrator that Kipling would have
regarded as the right sort: he is a
gentleman, with a gentleman's abil-
ity to hold his liquor, handle his
women, speak native languages, act
with dispatch and courage and im-
agination in any situation, and rec-
ognize in the Balabasa another gen-
tleman with whom he can deal man-
to-man.
Left to themselves, the Balabasa
and Jimmy Riddle between them
would prejKire the Alabasians for the
modern world in tluir own slow
but safe and gentlcmaidy way. But
they are not kit to themselves, l)e-
cause ranged against them are three
powerful enemies: the British Resi-
dent, \\\\() li\(s in the dislant (ajjilal
ol tlic (()\()]\\ and li;is no (orKern
lor the icsponsibiliiies ol his posi-
tion beyond the advaiKcmcm ol his
own career; the British C>)lonial Ol
THE NEW BOOKS
fice in far-oiT London, which is hag-
ridden with the anticolonial slogans
of ideological M.P.'s and fear of
United Nations intervention; and
the new African nationalist leaders,
portrayed as a group of brash, self-
seeking upstarts, ignorant sons of de-
tribalized slaves, with just enough
low cunning to line their pockets
with foreign aid and to manipulate
well-meaning but stupid anticolo-
nialists to their own advantage.
It is unnecessary to trace the proc-
ess by which Jimmy Riddle and the
Balabasa defeat their enemies and
save the day for those who really
understand the "white chaps" and
the "black chaps" of the right sort,
but to a reader who knows no more
about Africa than what he reads in
the daily papers, their victory is
likely to appear as a piece of senti-
mental anachronism. It looks as if
the future belongs to the nationalist
leaders, whether or not they are the
kind of cheap opportunists that they
are pictured as being in fit)) my Rid-
dle. The book advances the argu-
ment for the white-man's-burden
view of colonialism ^vith a good deal
of force and conviction, and much
of it is entertaining reading, but it
is some light years away from the
quality of such classic novels of Brit-
ish colonialism as Forster's A Pas-
sage to India and Orwell's Burmese
Days, on grounds quite apart from
the point of view it espouses.
NOVELS ABOUT ARTISTS
A NEW novel by Jay Williams,
The Forger (Atheneum, .?4.95), is an
unpretentious but moderately enter-
taining story about a group of young
artists in Greenwich \'illage. Most
of them live in a kind of moral and
artistic twilight zone, dependent on
the whims of art editors for the com-
mercial jobs that keej) them alive
but at the same time trying to man-
ipulate dealers, rich patrons, critics,
and foundation grants so that they
can find the leisure to do the kind
of independent work I ha I really in-
terests tiiem.
The main character and narrator
of The Forger is a young man named
Rulus Cirilfni, a Brooklyn boy who
discovered his talent caily and has
alrc-ady eslablishcd a small i(|)uta-
lion lor himsell, though he now
spends most ol his lime turning out
Breakdown (World, ,14.95) is a first
novel that is not only about a painter
but also by a painter, a young Eng-
lishman named John Bratby, best
known in this country for the paint-
ings he did for the motion ])icture
The Horse's Mouth. Bratby has illus-
trated Breakdown with a good many
of his own drawings, all of them
vigorously rejiulsive.
In rough outline the book traces
the jjsychological deterioration of a
successful artist over a period of
years, l)ui in fact it is an almost in-
describable hodgepodge. There are
some scenes of considerable loice,
but their effect is largely destroyed
lascivious covers for paperbacks and {
pursuing assorted young women ol
his acquaintance. But he discovers
that he has a certain gift for inii
tating the style of earlier periods; t
at first he uses it honestly in restor-
ing damaged works of art, but then
the possibility of outright forgery
presents itself, and he sees the way
out that he, like all his friends, is
seeking— a way of making a large
amount of money that will free him |
from further hack work to paint as
he pleases. |
Alongside Griffin's development as <
a forger in art runs a love affair
that is also a kind of forgery in per
sonal relations. Griffin contracts a
liaison with a rich girl named Adri-
enne who is living the life of an
artist though in fact she has no
talent. At bottom Griffin knows that
Adrienne is extremely unstable and
not to be trusted, that their relation-
ship has a shaky present and no fu-
ture, but he keeps himself chained
to her through willful self-deception j
as to her true nature, though in the I
end, predictably enough, he is re-
claimed from both his artistic and
his i^ersonal lapses into fakery.
The most interesting parts of The
Forger are those that deal with the
technical aspects of forgers— the way ■
new paintings are artificially aged,
the process of "authentication" by
experts, the methods of marketing
fakes, and so on. Williams seems
to be well informed about such fas-
cinating matters. He is less interested
in the moral and aesthetic problems
raised by forgery, and a good deal
of his book is filled out with more
or less standard scenes from Bo-
hemian life.
I
*BLUE
SKIES,
BROWN
STUDIES
by William Sansom
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limned by "one of the
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associations . , . Sansom
is a writer who teaches
people to see.''
— Newsweek. Handsome
photographs illustrate
each chapter. $6.50
THE
ART OF
THE FAKER
3,000 Years
of Deception
by Frank Arnau
The story of art forgery
and forgers from ancient
Egypt to the present day.
A fascinating study of
the techniques of faking
everything from Meissen
porcelain to Van Gogh
oils; of the methods by
which these frauds were
discovered; and of the
accomplished forgers
like van Meegeren who
have duped collectors,
museum experts, critics
and scholars. Lovishly
illustrated in full color
and in half tone. $7*50
EDWIN
O'CONNOR
delighted millions
with his memorable best seller
THE LAST HURRAH
He now offers
a new and unforgettable
reading experience
THE EDGE OF
A Book- 'Wm"
of-the-Month'' .
Cluh
Selection 'S^m
A book destined
to become
one of the most important and
widely read novels
of our time.
"The enormous audience that has so enthusiastically
read Shirer's Rise and Fall of the Third Reich will
most certainly want to read Kennan's Russia and
THE West," — Denver Post
^Russia and the West
Under Lenin and Stalin
By GEORGE F. KENNAN
"It is not often that a book as instructive as this one manages
to be so engrossing that it is bound tO keep even general
readers fascinated long past their bedtimes. George F. Kennan
[formerly U. S. Ambassador to the Soviet Union, now Ambas-
sador to Yugoslavia] is an artist as well as an experienced
.diplomat; a moralist as well as an accomplished historian.'*
— Marshall D. Shulman, TV. Y. Times Book RevievfT
A Book-of-the-Month Club Selection • $5.75
^-.^■^v ','^A-v«m-ve'«igf!snmti-si:si!:s:m<:i'ys>(W-«i' ;,^'^^t^'>--if>'' ^'■--^r-.'^.'^v^iik
^Atlantic Monthly Press Books • l.iTTI..E, BROWN & COMPANY* boston
96
THE NEW BOOKS
by the author's intrusive facctious-
ness and stupid commentary. The
depths of his psychological penetra-
tion may be judged by such a pas-
sage as this: ". . . few of us are simple
characters when the veneers are re-
moved, and few of us are simple
to analyze, the underlying causes for
our actions being often multiple
and contradictory"— an insight that
will hardly be ne^v to most readers
in 196J. The Avriting is frequently
marred by stale language; things haj)-
pen in "the wee small hours" and
have "dire consequences" and are
otherwise wrapped up in cliches;
yet some of the writing is forceful
and direct.
But the most annoying aspect of
the book is the author's way of in-
terrupting the development of the
central character's decline with some
facetious remark addressed to his
"dear reader" or abandoning the
central character altogether in fa-
vor of a meandering account of some-
body extremely peripheral to the
main story. The effect of the whole
thing is a little as if Laurence Sterne
had tried to write a novel based on
a plot by Dostoevski.
Breakdoiun has vitality and exu-
berance and imagination, but it is
undisciplined and often silly.
Clem Anderson b) R. V. Cassill
(Simon & Schuster, .'^5.95) has as its
main character a writer, rather than
a painter, and it is in every ^vay a
more ambitious book than either
of those just discussed.
Clem Anderson, the title-character,
grows up in a small Middle Western
town in the dej^rcssion years and has
the sexual adventures that boys in
small Middle Western towns usually
have, at least in novels. Then he
goes to a state university (it sounds a
good deal like the University of
Iowa) where he decides that he wants
to be a writer and attracts a certain
amount of attention by his work,
and where he falls in love with a
girl named Sheila. After service in
the war and a brief period in a
psychiatric hospital, he and Sheila
go to Mexico, where he writes a book
of poetry and starts a novel; later
they move on to Paris, then back to
New York, where the novel is pub
lished with some siufcss. Cilem iries
to write for the tluaire; his marri
age to Sheila collajjses; he becomes
more and more alcoholic and dies at
about the age of forty in the late
1950s, the great poem he planned to
write ("Prometheus Bound") still im-
written. In a sentence: CUnn Andcr-
sou is a study of the waste and trag-
edy of romantic genius in America.
But such a summary presents the
barest bones of a novel that is not
only very long (627 pages of small-
ish type) but also very elaborately
developed in every dimension. In-
deed, Clem Anderson is a book of
which the reader gets the impression
that the author has put into it every-
thing he has thought or felt or read;
that it represents a labor so vast,
so inclusive, and so personal that to
criticize it adversely is almost in-
humane.
Yet I must confess that for my
taste the book is badly inflated.
There are too many incidents, too
many characters, too many symbols,
too much fine writing. Often the
excesses of language are almost lu-
dicrous, as in occasional figures of
speech ("we never knew whose cheek
he had his tongue in when he talked
like that") or in longer passages like
the following apostrophe to a canoe
on a college lake:
O Canoe, thou perfect Freudian sym-
bol, how can any campus be complete
without thee? You vaginal flotillas,
bright-painted as an array of lipsticks
on a dime-store counter, on what
lakes and rivers of surrendered time
do you not float, frustrating symbols
of fulfillment! Already in thee, and
aching pleasure nigh, our duckfot
[duckfoot?] paddles scraping thy sides
like juvenile swans scrambling for
purchase on the Ledean vessel! Thou
grounder on the mudbanks of the
Illisus, what poops of burnished gold
bore more fitly Her of the rain pud-
dles and Midwestern ponds and the
morning surf on Cyprian beaches?
Canoe, qu'as-iu fait de ma jrunessr?
That, of course, is meant to be
funny, and perhaps it is, but there
are a good many serious passages
that can come close to matching it
for fancy literariness of allusion and
diction.
T II i; (; L O () M OF T FI I. IRISH
The Edge of Sadness (Atlantic -
Little, Brown, $5) is Kdwin O'CJon-
nor's fusi novel since- his exiremely
success! ul and enleriaining story
about Boston politics. The Last
Hurrah, and it bears a rough resem-
blance to the j>revious book in that
it presents a picture of an earlier
and livelier generation of Boston
Irish as seen through the eyes of a
younger, less exuberant man.
The chief representative of the
older generation in this book is not
a politician as in The Last Hurrah
but a businessman, chiefly an oper-
ator in slum real estate, a wily, witty,
inexhaustibly vivacious and tirelessly
devious old man named Charlie Car-
mody. O'Connor's picture of old
Carmody is a brilliant piece of char-
acterization, though Carmody lacks
the fascination of the old politician
in The Last Hurrah because he is
essentially a static figure, tenaciouslv
hanging on to his fortune and re-
lentlessly bullying his middle-aged
family, but not engaged in any
crucial action such as the old poli-
tician's final fight for office.
As a consequence, the next gener-
ation, the generation of old Car-
mody's children, tends to occupy the
center of interest in the novel. They
are the characters who live on "the
edge of sadness," unable to recapture
the high spirits of their father Avho
fought his way up from the slums
to become a man of wealth, but
equally unable to free themselves of
their father's psychological domina-
tion.
The most interesting member of
this generation of the Carmody fam-
ily is the son who became a priest,
Father John Carmody, who is now
the pastor of the old family parish.
Father John is a curiously twisted,
ingroAvn man, devout in his religion
but hating his father and his parish-
ioners, consumed with loneliness yet
wanting to be left alone.
The story is told by another priest.
Father Hugh Kennedy, whose father
had been an acquaintance if hardly
an admirer of old Charlie Carmody,
and who has himself been a life-
long friend of all the Carmody chil-
dren and a fellow-seminarian with
Father John. Father Kennedy has
not had an easy life; after an ini-
tially happy jjericxl in the priesthood
he slowly drifted into alcoholism,
until his bishoj) had to send him to
spend Icjiir years in a sanitarium for
alcoholic priests in Arizona. At the
lime of tlie story Father Kennedy
has been rehabilitated, but he has
THREE FINE NOVELS
THE CHATEAU
An enchanting novel of a young
American couple in France. "A
work of an."— Washington Star.
"His style is a ]oy."—TI:)e Neto
Yorker. "A pleasure to read."—
N. Y. Times. "Most appealing."
—Saturday Review. Designed by
Warren Chappell. Jacket by
Ilonka Karasz. $4-95
THE HOUSE
ON COLISEUM
STREET
A new novel bv the author of
The Hard Blue Sky and The
Black Prince. The gripping story
of a Southern girl whose one
tragic mistake had far-reaching
consequences. Orvu^le Prescott
calls M iss Grau, " A born writer."
Designed by George Salter.
■ I3-50
\w:
THE CROSSING
POINT
Set in the midst of the crowded,
mysterious life of the Jewish
community in an English city.
At its center stand a rabbi, mid-
dle-aged, unmarried, and a girl
of rare integrity, daughter of a
man who represents Judaism
at its narrowest. Designed by
George Salter. $4.50
~ •«. and
5 exceptional
books
of general
interest
mi.-.:
PM-'m ....
at better bookstores
everywhere
THE SOUTHWEST Old and New
A social, political and cultural history of America's oldest and new-
est frontier— Texas, Oklahoma, New Mexico and Arizona— from the
oarlv cliff dwellers to the booming modern cities. With 38 halftone
illustrations and 2 maps. Designed by Warren Chappell. $7.50
THE DEATH OF TRAGEDY
"He \\ rites about scores of plays and talks about each freshly and
eagerlv — the experience of a man who has read both widely and
\\ ell."- Granville Hicks. "He belongs to the Edmund Wilsons of
this world."— C. R Snow. Designed by Vincent Torre. I5.00
AN ONLY CHILD
The beautiful memoir of O'Connor's early years. "It sparkles in depth
with humor. At times it is appallingly sad. Always it is movingly
beautiful."— N. Y. Herald Tribune. Designed by Warren Chappell.
THE LONELY LAND
The author of The Singing Wilderness tells a true tale of thrilling
white-water adventure by canoe down 500 miles of Canada's wild
Churchill River, re-exploring the same rapids, lakes, portages and
primitive haunts of the voyageurs of an earlier time. Illustrated by
Francis Lee Jaques. $4-50
THE CONQUEST OF PAIN
A fascinating account for the. layman of the new anaesthetic tech-
niques that make possible operations unthinkable onl\^ a few years
ago. By the Director, Research Department of Anaesthetics, Royal
College of Surgeons of England. Designed by Guy Fleming. $4.50
ALFRED • A • KNOPF, Publisher
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Christians think about such basic matters as . . . ways of
fighting communism . . . religious tolerance ... the Cold War
on all fronts . . . soaring costs of medical care . . . needed changes
in labor legislation . . . civil rights . . . Federal aid to education.
This July, introduce yourself to AMERICA, the National
Catholic Weekly Review, and share in the reading
benefits described by these influential opinion-molders:
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THE NEW BOOKS
returned to work as the pastor of
deteriorating church in a criunbli
parish, like Father John Carmoi
a lonely, middle-aged celibate o
of touch with the lives of his p:
rishioners, withdrawn and perfum
tory in the performance of his dutiei
The best parts of The Edge
Sadyiess are those dealing with thi
priestly life. Rarely in America
fiction is the Catholic priest pr
sented as a human being coping wit
human problems of ambition am
money and loneliness like anybod
else (the short stories of J. F. Powers^
are an obvious exception), but
O'Connor has succeeded in portray-|
ing priests as men, without any trao
of anticlericalism or satire.
The Edge of Sadness lacks the nar-
rative poAver of The Last Hurrah
though it has its comic passages, it ii
« cjuieter, more somber book. B
within its modest limits it is a sue
cesslul and mo\'ing picture of cer-
tain aspects of .American life that
have rarely been explored in fiction, i
(A Book-of-the-Month Club selec-
tion.) '
I
WOMEN ON THE LOOSE
BOTH A Shooting Star by Wal-i
lace Stegner (Viking, S5) and The
House on Coliseum Street by Shirley
Ann Grau (Knopf, $3.50) are stories)
about women who have lost their
moorings and find themselves adrift*
on the uncertain currents of un-
familiar feelings, though the two
books otherwise bear no resemblance
to one another.
Miss Grau's central character in
The House on Coliseum Street is a
young woman named Joan Mitchell.
Joan has been left a considerable
amount of money by her father, the
first of her mother's numerous hus-
bands, and she lives with her mother
and assorted half-sisters in a large,
comfortable old house in New Or-
leans. It is a fairly amiable, rather
directionless existence— Joan takes
some courses at the local university
to help fill up her days, she has an
oll-and-on affair with a young man
who fails lo interest her greatly but
\vho will presumably marry her in
time, she carries on sporadic domes-
tic scjuabbles with her mother and
her somewhat more attractive
younger half-sister Doris. Then sud-
denly Joan i;; deeply involved \\'\\\\
yi^
THE NEW BOOKS
ia young instructor :it the university
(who has earlier been one of Doris's
admirers, but the reh^tionshijj fails
to last, and when tlie young man
idrifts back to Doris, Joan sets out
to destroy him, witn success.
The novel is admirably written,
tense and understated. It seems to
portray a kind of post-moral world
su(h as a reader encounters in the
books of certain younger French
^\■riters— a Avorld in which right and
Avjong have little )elevancc to what
tlie characters expect of themselves
and of eadi other. I confess that it
is difficult for me to take any con-
sinning interest in characters of this
sort, but I can admire the economy
and skill with which Miss Grau
has told her story.
IN A Shooting Star Stegner has
written a much longer and more
fully developed novel. His heroine
is a woman named Sabrina Castro,
brought up in the strict traditions
of a wealthy Boston family trans-
planted to California and married
for about a dozen years to a cold-
blooded but successful society direc-
tor. On a vacation in Mexico, very
much to her own surprise, Sabrina
enters into an adulterous relationship
with a dealer in textiles. For her it
is a revelation; she decides that she
is deeply in love and cannot return
to her husband. But her lover is
a good deal more circumspect about
the whole thing; when it becomes
apparent that he has no intention
of sacrificing his business and family
to their affair, Sabrina completes the
job of cutting loose from the moral
standards that have previously
guided her life, and becomes a sort
of society tramp.
In the end, of course, Sabrina gets
herseif straightened out, chiefly
through coming to know her old
Boston-bred mother, not as the
dragon of propriety she has always
seemed but as another woman who
has also suffered and learned to bear
her deprivations and indignities as
Sabrina must.
A Shooting Star is the work of
a highly competent craftsman. The
characters are skillfully drawn and
the story well constructed. If it never
rises much above the level of care-
ful, conscientious workmanship, it
never falls very much bclo\\- it cither.
(A Literary Guild Selection.)
BOOKS
in brief
KATHERINE GAUSS JACKSON
FICTION
There are two recently published
books whose chief purpose, happily
for everybody, is to amuse, and to
which it would be a disservice to re-
view the plot, even if one could. One
is Louis Kronenberger's witty A
Month of Sundays, and the other
The Adventures of Maud Noakes,
edited by Alan Neame.
A Month of Sundays, by Louis Kron-
enbcrger.
This is a modern Mad Hatter's
Tea Party where today's most hor-
rendous social foibles are made to
appear as outrageously absurd as
they are. The scenes are acted out by
a cast whom Mr. Kronenberger sets
in a luxury institution called "Se-
renity House" and directs with de-
licious dialogue and deft but never
heartless satire, through mock-human
rituals.
Viking, $3.50
The Adventures of Maud Noakes,
edited by Alan Neame.
Maud Noakes was the daughter of
an Englishwoman who worked ener-
getically, when Maud was young, for
the Anglican Society for the Propaga-
tion of Christian Knowledge— par-
ticularly among Africans. But Maud
at any early age noticed that in spite
of all the talk of being kind to the
"black brothers and sisters" in Africa,
her mother would move if she found
herself sitting next to one on a tram.
This led her into strange cogitations
and stranger doings as she herself
goes to Africa (and then pretty well
all over Europe and East Asia) on a
quite different kind of personal mis-
sionary venture. Any book which
has been heralded as comparable to
"the best comic writing of Ronald
Firbank and Evelyn Waugh" starts
off under considerable handicap but
unquestionably this Maud, this
exotic and sexy "latter-day female
Candide," will have her followers.
New Directions, $3.75
All the Summer Days, by Ned
Calmer.
Those summer days in Paris in the
1920s were the ones in which Lind
bergh flew the Atlantic; the final ap-
A wonderful
treasury of
Jerome
Weidman's
65 best
stories
MY FATHER
SITS IN THE
DARK
Here are stories about people from
New York tenements and Mediter-
ranean villas, wised-up kids and
gentle old men, the shiny nouveaux
riches and the shabby old-fash-
ioned poor. Some are heels, some
are heroes, but you will remember
them all long after you put this
book down. $5.95, now at your
bookstore f^ RANDOM HOUSE
A superb
biographical novel
about one of the
greatest painters
who ever lived
By GLADY$» i^ClOUTT
Author of David the King
Here is the heart, the mind, and
the times of a genius, his passion
and compassion, liis enonnous zest
for living. Truly a work of art.
$5.95, now at your bookstore
HOUSE
Reprints Available
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for "The Coininja; Rust in the Real
Estate IJooni"— the lead article in
Harper's June issue— reprints have
Ijeen made available. 1 hey may
he purchased for 10 cents each
from :
Department G, Harper's Magazine
49 East 33rd St.
New York 16, N.Y.
ANDRE MAUROIS'
spellbinding portrait
of Adriennc, the wife of
La Fayette . . . one of
the most appealing
heroines in history
Based on letters and documents forgotten
for a century in a French chateau
Illustrated. $7.95. ■ McGRAW-HILL
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BOOKS IN BRIEF
peal of Sacco and Van/etti was
turned down and they were executed;
Mussolini and Hitler were building
up their power; the Babe had already
reached the height ot his; Gertrude
Stein, Hemingway, and Isadora Dun-
can were familiar figures on the
boulevards; "The Big Parade" Avas
the talked-of movie. But to the ex-
patriate young Americans on the
siafi ol the Paris Atnericdii this a*' is
;ill merely background. Foreground
WA^ the search lor their own personal
pleasure or salvation. The atmos-
phere of Paris in the spring is wo i-
derfully recreated; it is almost pal-
pable. If there seem sometimes too
many characters to keep straight even
with the help of the chart provided,
some of them on the other hand are
unforgettably sharp. If the parties
seem to go on too long and run into
each other, and the sAvift exchanges
of sexual partners— including the
final switch— are a little hard to take,
perhaps that is the way it Avas.
The novel is a nostalgic reminder
of a generation that thought itself
happily lost in a magic city far from
home, turning its back on respon-
sibility and the outside Avorld. The
contemporary Italian movie, "La
Dolce Vita," about an Italian neAvs-
paperman and his friends makes the
excesses of these summer days look
like child's play but one has the sense
that the author of this book believes
—and hopes— that for young Ameri-
cans at least, the days of political de-
tachment are finished except, as here,
in vital and nostalgic memory.
Little, BroAvn, S4.50
The Dark and the Light, by Elio
Vittorini. Translated by Frances
Keene.
In this book the author of The
R(ul Carnation and The Elephant
includes tAvo Avonderfully contrast-
ing novellas, "Erica" and "La Gari-
baldina." "Erica" is a most ex-
(juisitely restrained and tautly writ-
ten story of a fourteen-year-old girl
abandoned by her parents, and her
efforts to feed and take care of her
\oiinfj;er brother and sister in a
poverty-ridden slum outside a city in
lion hern Italy. I have never read a
siinjjler and more (juietly moving
siory— explicitly of the instinctive
pride of a child, implicitly of the
nature of all thai is good in human
|>i ide at any age.
;o
The other is a much more flam
boyant though no less discerning
story of a Avonderful, funny, andljiosi
aAvful old Avoman, once a camp fol
loAver of Garibaldi's army, and a
young soldier she picks up on a train, ng
Magnificent bravura. >ral
NeAv Directions, $3.75 [ion
niii
NON-FICTION fof'
Slai
If our new head of ICA (Interna-
tional Co-operation Administration)
has any doubts about hoAV to over-
haul his department, it isn't for lack
of criticism or because he hasn't had
all iis previous errors carefully and!
vehemently pointed out to him. Two
angry books have been published in
recent Aveeks.
A Nation of Sheep, by William J.
Lederer.
One of the coauthors of The Ugly
American here writes a reportorial
criticism of our foreign-aid policies
based on his oAvn experiences— six
years as special assistant to the com-
mander of all U. S. forces in the
Pacific and tAventy-six "extended"
trips to all the* Asiatic-Pacific world.
His book concentrates on truly hair-
raising accounts of our mistakes and
misinformation in Laos, Thailand,
Formosa, Korea; of "The Boomerang
in the Foreign Student Program";
and he sums up his general indigna-
tion in a revealing chapter called
"Government by Misinformation."
He is not Avithout hope if Ave Avill
stop being "a nation of sheep" and
by every means at our disposal-
classes on foreign affairs, careful
reading of good ncAvspajjers, letters,
and questions to Congressmen, the
President, and other responsible
government officials— keep ourselves
informed of Avhat actually is happen-
ing. He makes it very clear that it's
up to us. His oAvn book Avould be
more helpful if it included even the
simplest of maps of these troubled
areas, but it is a mine of revealing
documentation even Avithout.
Norton, $3.75
Foreign Aid: Our Tragic Experi-
ment, by Thomas S. Loeber.
Mr. Loel)er has worked as a ma-
laiia specialist since 1950 in ICA in
Indonesia— in Sumatra, Java, liali,
parts of the Lesser Sunda and Spice
Islands, and Celebes. Later he Aveni
i
BOOKS IN BRIEF
io Jordan, where he worked until
^960. His stories, therefore, are of
hose regions, and shocking they
)ften are, though he, unlike Mr.
^ederer, occasionally has an inspir-
ng incident to report. But the gen-
•ral pattern is frighteningly repeti-
ious. In his view we made a grievous
nistake when the administration of
oreign aid was taken over by the
itate Department:
Out of American self-interest, the
State Department took over the for-
eign-aid program and converted it
into an instrument for the preserva-
tion of the status quo. ... It is the
imperialism of enforced status quo, or
at best, of the mandatory wait and
see. In the pursuit of self-interest and
survival, we have slipped into one of
the oldest of patterns with the very
newest of political ideas as the means.
He intends that these words and
^thers should anger his reader. He
concludes much as Mr. Ledercr does,
Lhat:
We should use anger intelligently.
If the strangle-hold of foreign-aid
bureaucrats is to be broken, public
opinion must become as well organ-
ized as are those bureaucrats them-
selves. They are smug and secure in
their rich empire. It will take no
small effort to dislodge them. A
complacent people will not do so.
In a postscript he outlines nine
specific steps which should be taken
to change the administration of
foreign aid (in which he firmly be-
lieves). They are in part based on an
MIT study on foreign aid (prepared
at the Senate's request) which, with
these two books, should be required
reading for us all. Norton, |3.50
Communication Among Social Bees,
by Martin Lindauer.
Mr. Lindauer starts by explaining
briefly the work that Professor Karl
von Frisch has done over the last
fifteen years studying the ways in
which bees communicate. For in-
stance, the foragers, by round dances
or tail-wagging dances, indicate to
the rest of the hive the distance and
direction and suitability of swarm-
ing sites. This was all most extraordi-
nary news to me and when he further
explains that human beings who
have studied this language can tell
with exactitude where the bees will
swarm, I read on with fascination.
He describes an experiment and con-
cludes:
However, there is no better proof
for the correctness of the interpreta-
tion of the dance of the bees, as it has
been given by Professor von Frisch,
and that we correctly understand the
language of the bees, than the experi-
ment just described. The nesting
place was completely unknown to us
beforehand, for the scouting bees had
chosen it themselves. We were able
only to observe the dancing bees in
the swarm and to decide from their
behavior the location of what they
had found. We did not follow the
swarm as it moved into its new dwell-
ing: we were there at the future
nesting place hours before its arrival.
Dr. Lindauer has spent years ex-
perimenting with and studying bees
of all kinds and countries and has
discovered "high levels of accom-
plishment in insect sensory organs."
His experiments are here most clearly
and lucidly explained and illustrated
with charts and photographs. A won-
derftdly interesting book even to the
most unscientific reader.
Harvard, $4.75
FORECAST
For August
Season of Mists by Honor Tracy
will be published by Random House.
J. D. Salinger's first book since the
1951 publication of The Catcher in
the Rye will come from Little,
Brown late in the month. It is called
Franny and Zooey and will include
the two long short stories which ap-
peared in The New Yorker in 1955
and 1957, with a thousand-word in-
troduction by the author.
For Fall
Houghton Mifflin announces a
new novel by Carson McCullers,
Clock Without Hands.
Atheneum will publish Virgilia
Peterson's autobiography, A Matter
of Life and Death.
The author of A Separate Peace,
John Knowles, has delivered his new
novel. Morning at Antibes, to Mac-
millan for fall publication.
Clare Boothe Luce has a novel
called The Shark Rock Mission on
Atheneum's September list.
Little, Brown announces the fall
publication of a biography of Clark
Gable by Jean Garceau, his private
secretary for twenty-one years.
SUPPLEMENT
"AtlaM
Special Supple
PSYCHIATRY
PSYCHIATRY TODAY
authoritative, lucid, and timely dis-
cussions of the issues in American
psychiatry in 1961.
50 EXTRA PAGES
12 PENETRATING ARTICLES
Plus all regular contents
NOIV ON SAUS
A
playful
mammal
teaches
the Navy
tricks
porpoises and sonar
By Winthrop N. Kellogg
The amazing and amusing story of 9
years' research into the echo-ranging
system with which the porpoise detects
distant objects, avoids invisible obsta-
cles and even selects its menu by sound
. . . how its brain, in some ways more
complex than man's, has been "drafted"
to help the Navy improve sonar gear.
Illus. $4.50
At bookstores
UNIVERSITY OF CHICAGO PRESS
iVl LJ O 1 Ci m the round
BY DISCUS
THE NEW TRISTAN
Young intellectuals have put Wagner
aside — for good reasons — but a new
album of one great opera reminds us
of his emotional power.
The one opera that represents the
nineteenth century is Wagner's
Tristan iind Isolde, and it still holds
its own although it means far less to
the younger generation than it used
to. Young intellectuals these days
tend to take Wagner on sufferance,
^vhereas only thirty years ago he was
still a vital force. Part of the reason,
though by no means the major part,
lies in the scarcity of singers and the
sudden lapse in the ^\■agner tradi-
tion. Those who hear Tristan as
sung by the present crop of helden-
tenors and dramatic sopranos have
no idea of the way the opera really
can sound. One has to go back to the
1930s, when singers like Melchior,
Schorr, Flagstad, Leider, Branzell,
and Rethberg, in their full glory,
were giving us unforgettable Wagner
performances. Now, it may be a
truism that every age thinks the
previous age was better; but when
it comes to ^Vaguer singing we at
least are on firm ground. The previ-
ous age ions better, as a quick look
at the casts of any opera house in
the world will demonstrate.
But more than the lack of ade-
quate performance, the general lack
of interest in Wagner on the part of
the intellectuals stems from today's
prevailing musical philosophy. By
far the biggest musical influence of
the post-AVorld War II scene has
been Anton Webern, who stands for
everything that Wagner was not. Or,
to put it another way, Wagner is
the macrocosmos, Webern the micro-
cosmos. The Wagner operas run for
hours and hours (for eternity, snort
pr
ap
the smart young people today); thelsK
Webern pieces are enormously con
centrated and elliptical. It is part oi
the age; the trend ever since tht
1920s has been toward anti-romanti
cism; toward condensation, intel
lectualization, and dodecaphonism
(Indeed, the beginnings of the trcndjco
can be discerned in Wagner's own st(
lifetime, when the disenchanted
Nict/sche cast the Wagner operas
from the pale, and loudly upheld
Carmen as the ideal.)
It could be that the anti-Wagner-
ians are perfectly correct in their
basic criticisms. Wagner's theories
never did work out as he intended;
and he was the world's worst writer;
and his librettos are static; and
his music can be repetitious; and his
eternal chromatic slitherings, his
avoidance of a fixed tonality, can be
irritating. That said, one puts on
the records of Tristan, or Meister-
singer, or W alkiir e—dind. is promptly
lost in Wagner's world. He was too
powerful a creator and his music is
too strong. Intellectually one might
agree with all that the anti-Wagner-:
ians say. But emotionally one is
swept away. One ignores his muzzy
philosophy and is simply drowned in
the ocean of integrated sound that
"W^agner has created. He may be less
popular than he used to be, but he
will always be with us. And, given
the proper singers, there well coidd
be a renaissance.
The Sixth Disc
The proper singers are certainly
not contained in the new album of
Tristan und Isolde. George Solti
leads the Vienna Philharmonic, with
a cast consisting of Birgit Nilsson
and Fritz Uhl in the title roles,
Regina Resnik (Brangaene), Tom
Krause (Kinvenal), and Arnold van
Mill (Marke). The five discs of the
opera are accompanied by a sixth
disc which contains the story of the
way the engineers and musical staff
prepared the opera (London A 450(5,
mono; OSA 1502, stereo). That
bonus disc in some ways is the great-
est sales pitch since the Dutch talked
the Indians out of Manhattan Island.
As narrated by John Culshaw, it
assumes that this is the greatest stereo
recording in history. It also comes
right out and slates that because
stereo is a new art form, the music
lias to be a(iaj)icd for stereo, and not
.tereo to the music. The booklet of
\:>rogram notes also says as much.
"We were very unhappy about the
isual stage setting for Act I," writes
|Vfr. Culshaw, the recording director.
'. . . Always ungainly and slightly
preposterous on the stage, this be-
omes hopelessly ambiguous in
t tereo; and so we sketched a different
pproach, which involved swinging
he whole imagined setting by about
it'orty-five degrees, so that the ship is
liagonally across the stage, with
ilsolde's cabin occupying the space
from extreme (audience) left to
ibout center, and the stern of the
ship slightly back on the extreme
right. Whether better or not as a
tage setting, this certainly makes
>tereo sense. . . . The idea farthest
from our minds was to copy, on
records, what is heard in the average
opera house; instead, we tried to en-
sure that the intense emotional ex-
DPrience of Tristan itnd Isolde
sHfuld survive the transfer to a
mtdium unknown to its composer,
and use to the full whatever ad-
vantage that different medium could
ibestow."
!
Realism by Stereo
Well, this is honest. It also out-
lines a new aesthetic that can, and
will, be argued for a long time to
come. Which is more important: the
music or the recording engineers?
the score or the new electronic
medium?
But, curiously enough, despite all
this to-do, the new Tristan album is
not as revolutionary-sounding as
might be imagined. It does have its
moments of unusual realism, though
no more than other good stereo
recordings from major companies
(the recent Madama Butterfly from
Capitol is a good example). Mr.
Culshaw and his workers have been
striving for the illusion of depth and
stage placement. Thus at the very
opening of the opera, the voice of
the steersman is heard from a dis-
tance. Throughout the act, Isolde's
voice comes from the left. In the
Liebestod she is well centered. But
that is no more or no less than any
good stereo recording should offer.
On the other hand, there are sug-
gestions that the engineers have been
overzealous. Sometimes the singers
come well over the orchestra, and at
other times the orchestra blots them
Three superb new additions to Angelas
GREAT RECORDINGS
OF THE CENTURY"
For those who treasure the great perform-
ances of the past. Angel presents another
group in its series of faithful restorations.
In technical clarity and fidelity, these
recordings far, far surpass the originals. In
spirit, they are the originals, for they bring
you the great artists of another era, living,
and singing and playing again. As Martin
Mayer said in Esquire, "In every case, the
spirit of the original inspired performance
has been retained . . . these Angel reissues
are a genuine miracle."
Each recording is accompanied by a fascinat'
ing booklet about the work, the performance
and the artist. These reissues are, of course,
available only in monophonic versions.
THE YOUNG CARUSO Were it not for Caruso's original recordings, some of
which are contained in this album, millions of music lovers all over the world
would never have heard the power and majesty of his voice. Today, the great
recordings made by Caruso when he was in his late twenties and early thirties
(1902-04) have been brought as close to modern fidelity standards as possible.
You can thrill to the great tenor in this album which includes Questa o quella
from Rigoletto, Celeste Aida, and his Vesti la giubba from Pagliacci — the per-
formance which won the young Caruso his Metropolitan Opera contract.
Angel COLH 119.
r^4J^Ji^\^^'.^^^^
THE VERDI REQUIEM with four of the century's greatest singers. This recording
recreates an historic occasion in the Rome Opera House . . . the classic 1939
performance of the Verdi Requiem with Maria Caniglia, soprano, Ebe Stignani,
mezzo-soprano, Beniamino Gigli, tenor, and Ezio Pinza, bass. Conducted by
Tullio Serafin with the orchestra and chorus of the Rome Opera House.
Angel GRB 4002 (2 disk set).
FURTWANGLER conducts the Beethoven Ninth
in what has been called "an immensely purposeful,
intensely heroic" interpretation. Originally recorded
at the re-opening of the Bayreuth Festival in 1951,
this performance brought together Elisabeth
Schwarzkopf, Elisabeth Hongen, Hans Hopf and
Otto Edelmann, with the Bayreuth Festival Orches-
tra and Chorus. In its new re-issue. Angel has uti-
lized the amazing technical advances of the past
decade to bring you even greater brilliance and
beauty. Angel GRB 4003 (2 disk set).
At your Angel Dealer's now
NEXT MONTH IN
Harper's
-^ magazine
ROBERT McNAMARA
AND HIS GENERALS
An exclusive report on the tough
and zealous men locked in a power
struggle inside the Pentagon.
By Joseph Kraft
ART AND SOCIETY
The former director of England's
National Gallery tackles the thorn-
iest of all the thorny controversies
that keep today's art world in a
turmoil.
By Sir Kenneth Clark
THE UNEMPLOYMENT
INSURANCE GAME
A businessman looks at the
abuses that pervert the purpose of
our unemployment-insurance sys-
tem.
By Seth Levine
YOUR UNKNOWN HEIRS
How patronage politicians may
take a bite out of your estate
. . . quite legally.
By Murray Toigh Bloom
ALSO: Seven Poems by Boris
Pasternak, lransl(il<'<l hy Hohvrl
Lowell; T\ii^ Ain«'ri<;ni Talciil for
Offending Pcopb-. hy D. 11. BatUvr
MUSIC IN THE ROUND
out. Certainly Nilsson's voice in her
Tristan iind Isolde appearances last
season at the Metropolitan Opera
sounded fuller and more colorful
than it does on these discs. In all
fairness, this new Tristan recording
has some exciting moments of sheer
audio. But it is less of a piece than
its competitor, the old Flagstad-
Schock-Furtwangler performance re-
issued on five Angel discs.
Getting to the London perform-
ance itself (and high time, too), it is
on the whole disappointing. Nilsson
is by far the best singer in the cast,
even if she is not in particularly good
voice. She sounds tired, and there is
at times a feeling of strain not nor-
mally associated with her work. She
is the greatest living Wagnerian
soprano, and when she lets loose,
the results can be thrilling. Here,
though, she is not consistently heard
at her best.
Newcomer from Bayreuth
Fritz Uhl, the Tristan, will be a
new name to most Americans. He
is thirty-three years old, a Bayreuth
regular, and will make his American
debut in San Francisco this fall. His
voice does have the virtue of fresh-
ness, and he is an intelligent mu-
sician. Nature has not given him a
big voice, however, and his singing
is more lyric than heroic. Resnik
and Krause are something below
routine. Resnik has a bad waver and
a severely limited top range. She is
not old, but sings with the voice of
an old singer. Krause is rough-sound-
ing and not always on pitch. The
role of King Marke, as sung by van
Mill, is one of the better things in
the nlbum. He has a strong, clear
voice, and he sings ^\•ith dig;iiiiy.
If not for Solti, the album might
be a disaster. Fortunalch he is one
of the best W^agner conductors
around, \\\i\\ a fine sense of pace and
a knowledge of style. He is one of
the few who can take a slow tempo
and keep it from falling apart. He
has firmness, strength, and a belief
in what he is doing, plus the Icch-
ni(]ue to cany his ideas through. As
he here has a great orchestra at his
disjjosal, thai pari of the oj)era (omcs
ihrough brilliantly. And is ihcic not
a slifJiig scgMicnl of opinion that
hf)l(is the orf hcstral element to be by
fat the most important factor in the
W'agiH I ojjcias?
JAZZ
Eric Larrabee
note6
THROWBAC]
On the jacket cover of We Insis
three young Southern Negroes, si
ins at a lunch counter, stare back ovc
their shoulders at the camera, the
eyes defiant and blank with the lon<
learned expectation of being hurt.
is the mood of the album, and of Ma
Roach's and Oscar Brown, Jr.'s "Free
dom Now Suite." Stirred by the grov
ing Negro intransigence in the Soutj
and increasing independence in Africr
Negro jazz musicians have begun ti
emerge from their indifference to pol,
tics, and this record is one of the results
It recalls slavery, recalls Africa. I
says that the Negro, in rage and anger
will no longer wait patiently for free
dom someday, but wants it now. Thes«
'are themes that no Negro musiciar
can take up without a sense of deef
personal involvement, and every nou
in the "Freedom Now Suite" is im
printed with the intensity of the players
feeling. One hesitates to criticize them
therefore, since criticism of the music
is bound to be interpreted as criticism
of the emotions behind it; but I will
have to risk that, because I feel thai
something is seriously going wrong here
At one point in a section called "All
Africa," Miss Abbey Lincoln, a supper-
club singer who has turned more seri-
ously to jazz, finds herself chanting the
names of various African tribes, "Bantu
. . . Zulu . . . Watusi . . . Ashanti," but
she sings them without any real sense
of their meaning. VVe are not in Africa,
we are back in the 1930s; and this is
the Whitmancsque roll call of the rivers
from Pare Lorentz's film, or the em-
barrassing fatix-naif rhetoric—". . . and
that's what Abe Lincoln said! . . ." of
"Ballad for Americans." '
Miss Lincoln, especially in "Triptych."
makes a sophisticated attempt to simu-
late savagery, but it will not do. It is
an effort to whip up an emotional state
of mind which is not naturally hers,
much as she may wish to believe that
it is. No one can deny the right of
American Negroes now, after so main
years of near-ohliviousncss to Africa, to
cultivate their sense of Africanism.. But
they will do themselves a great disservice
if they begin to treat it as a myth, as a
rituaii/ed background to their own no-
bility and dignity, and the outcome
will l)e not art but propaganda.
We InsistI "Freedom Noiu Suite," by
.Max Roach and Oscar Brown, jr., with
Abljcy Lincoln, Coleman Hawkins, and
Olaiunji. C:aii(li(l (stereo) 9002.
RESEARCH
#/'"'
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.sr!*s?^*5#£?S^
wMJ^tfW^"'
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l*=t;'aB>'rrf' ■
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/laking science feel at home in California
On the Palos Verdes peninsula, in Southern California, Gen Tel is contributing to the
development of "the perfect place to think."
Conceived to serve the growth of science on the West Coast, Palos Verdes Research
Park will be one of the nation's first large-scale developments planned and zoned
exclusively for research and development. This new community of homes, recrea-
tional and research facilities will occupy rolling slopes that face the Pacific.
To provide this campus-like science center with the most modern communications,
Gen Tel is now at work installing a completely integrated telephone system.
Palos Verdes is but one example of how Gen Tei's Industrial Development Department
helps to foster growth in Southern California by aiding large and small companies
to locate in an ideal research climate.
It is another example of how Gen Tel works as a "partner in progress" throughout the
31 states it serves.
General Telephone & Electronics Corporation, 730 Third Avenue, New York 17.
GENERAL
TELEPHONE &ELECTRONIDS V?*
Por details on industrial
and research sites in
Southern California, write
Industrial Development
Department, General
Telephone Co. of Calif.,
Santa Monica, Cai f.
fcfc
White Label
DEWAR'S
SCOTCH WHISKY
Famed are the clans of Scotland
. . . their colorful tartans worn in
glory through the centuries.
Famous, too, is Dewar's White
Label quality, with its genuine
Scotch flavor. Forever and
always a v/ee bit o' Scotland
in its distinctive bottle!
Available in ffuart. fifth, tf-nth • ilf pint
and minialu:' -in staU:, ■i.\.<-a /al.
SET OF 4 OOIOR PRINTS OF CLANS MacLaine, MacLeod, Wallace and Highlander, shown In au'
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Uepl. ^3, Schenley Import Co., 350 Filth Avenue, New York 1, New York (D86.8 Proof Blended Sto:
AUGUST 1961 SI XT- ' ^^
4
'O.
O.
A
•
^
maqa
JUL ?. ft 1QS4
MIL
ft /\ « ^ /.,
AMERICA ^
UNDER PRESSURE
Adiai E. Stevenson
McNAMARA ^
AND HIS ENEMIES
Joseph Kraft
. ^'- -..ji
AND SDCIETY
Sir Kenneth Clark
CULTURE-STRUCK
CANADA
Russell Lynes
:.rf Scott"!
Great
Moments
Founding of The Aninicon Medunl lsso( ia(ion~one of n series
of origindl oil fyaintings (oinniissioned by Fnrke-Davis.
in
Medicine
On May 7, 1847, some 250 physicians Ironi 22 states-
representing 10 nieclical societies and 28 colleges-
met among the nuisemn exhibits ol The Academy ol
Natural Sciences ol Philadelphia and formed Ihe
American Medical Asscxiation. The first j)resident,
Dr. Nathaniel (Chapman, was welcomed to ollice by
the chairman, Dr. Jonathan Knight.
This first convention pledged the lledgliiig organi-
zation tcj principles to which it has held ever since:
insistence npon continuing imjjiovemcnts in the
cjuality o[ nieditai (ate and ol medic .d echuah'oii,
and upon development ol a Cc:)de of Ethics which
benefits both patient and physician. Though some
of its advances have not been easily won, the AMA
has come to be recc:)gnized as one of the world's
impoi taut medical organizations.
Parke-Davis, which was (ounded as a maiuifacturer
ol better medic ines just 19 years later, in 18{)("), salutes
The American Medical Association as that organi-
zation continues to build uj)on the firm (oundatiou
of j)rofessional and j)ublic service envisioned by its
lounders IM years ago.
COI-YRIOMT nfrl — PARKF, DAVI"". ft COMPANY. OFTROiT 3?. MICHIGAN
PARKE-DAVIS
I'liiiire) s III licllci iiic(}i( iiics
4
4
lew for you— a more useful telephone number!
Y
nuiT
how
1
Cod
whc.
Th.
pai
for
N(
already have a telephone
' this. If you don't, here's
ook.
ihree digits are your Area
3y tell the telephone system
of the country you live in.
three digits designate your
telephone office, and the last
/oint your particular phone.
ar phone number. Unique.
ler like it anywhere.
ew kind of number helps
others reach you— and helps you reach
others— faster.
Area Codes here new—
All-Number Calling on the rise
Today the majority of our cus-
tomers already dial their Long Dis-
tance calls directly by means of Area
Codes. Eventually everyone will be
able to. Until then, if you call through
the Operator, you can save time by
giving her the Area Code of the tele-
phone you are calling when it is dif-
ferent from yours.
And already, in many parts of the
country, letters have been replaced by
numerals in telephone numbers. Be-
fore this change, we were running out
of usable telephone numbers contain-
ing letters, while phones were steadily
increasing. All-Number Calling, how-
ever, will give us enough numbers to
meet our needs into the next century.
Telephone progress like this benefits
everyone. Your new personal tele-
phone number is another step in our
effort to anticipate the needs of a
growing America.
BELL TELEPHONE SYSTEM
All-Number Calling may permit you
to use simple, tiny number-buttons
on portable phones of the future.
HARPER & BROTHERS
Chairman of the Executive
Committee: cass canfield
Chairman of the Board:
FRANK S. MACGREGOR
President:
RAYMOND C. HARWOOD
Executive Vice President:
EVAN W. THOMAS
Vice Presidents:
EUGENE EXMAN, ORDWAY TEAD,
DANIEL F. BRADLEY, JOHN FISCHER,
URSULA NORDSTROM
Treasurer: Louis f. haynie
HanDer'
MAG A
ZINI
PUBLISHED BY
HARPER & BROTHERS
vol. 223, NO. 1335
AUGUST 1961
ARTICLES
MAGAZINE STAFF
Editor in Chief: JOHN fischer
Managing Editor: russell lynes
Publisher: JOHN JAY hughes
Editors:
KATHERINE gauss JACKSON
CATHARINE MEYER
ROBERT B. SILVERS
LUCY DONALDSON
MARION K. SANDERS
Contributing Editor:
WILLIAM S. WHITE
Editorial Secretary: rose daly
Editorial Assistant:
VIRGINIA HUGHES
ADVERTISING DATA
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HARPER'S MAGAZINE:
© 1961 by Harper & Brothers.
All rights, including translation into
other languages, reserved by the
Publisher in the United States, Great
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Copyright Convention, and the
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Published monthly by Harper & Brothers,
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Address all correspondence rel.ilinn
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49 East 33rd St., New York 16, N. V.
21 America Under Pressure, Adhii E. Stevenson
25 How Not to Build a Ball Park, Allan Temko
29 Your Unknown Heirs, Murray Teigli Bloom
34 Robinson Crusoe in Florida, Ja)i de Hortog
41 McNamara and His Enemies, Joseph Kraft
49 How to Play the Unemployment-insurance Game,
Seth Levine
63 Our National Talent for Offending People,
D. H. Radler
71 A Matter of Motive, Johy^ D. Rosenberg
74 Art and Society, Kenneth Clark
FICTION
54 The Man Who Doubted, Jack Cope
VERSE
58 A Psychiatrist's Song, Hilary Corke
11 Voyage, Samuel Menashe
DEPARTMENTS
6 Letters
1 1 The Editor's Easy Chair— yigoslavia's flirtation
WITH free ENTERPRISE, John Fischer
16 After Hours— clltlre-struck canada, Russell Lynes
83 Public & Personal— THE good old simmertime,
William S. White
86 The New Books, Stanley Kunitz
91 Books in lirief, Kaiherine Gauss Jackson
94 Music in the Round, Discus
95 Jazz Notes, Eric Larrabee
cover by charles goslin; pho i ()(,r \i'i i : hi rt glinn
(magnum)
i
.
BROWSE WITHIN...
IN THE NEXT TWO PAGES you will find
fifty-four books listed, and all together
the list provides a good chance to check
up on some bad reading habits you may have been
unconsciously acquiring. Perhaps you have been allow-
ing the sheer busyness of your life to keep you from
reading the books you have been anxious not to
miss. Why not arrange — at the moment you decide
you want them — to have these particular books deliv-
ered to you infallibly? If they are actually in your home,
constantly before your eyes, reminding you of your good
intentions, soon or late you will surely find time to
read them. This certain insurance against missing the
particular books you are anxious to read has always
been the prime advantage of membership in the
Book-of-the-Month Club.
The Limited Trial Membership
you will find suggested and described in the next two pages
will demonstrate definitely whether — and to what extent —
this sensible system can be effectual in your own busy life.
jBlvOiAf SE HEIvE... for books you may
A\i> nil.
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455.THE AGONY
AND THE EC-
STASY by IRVING
STONE. (Retail
price $5.95)
454. THE LAST
OF THE JUST by
ANDRE SCHWARZ-
BART. (Retail
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457. RING OF
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WELL. Illustrated
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451. A BURNT-
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186. HAWAII by
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458. JAPANESE
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449.WHO KILLED
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104. ADVISE
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465. PROFILES IN
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THE
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460. SCIENCE
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459. RESIST-
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448. ABRAHAM
LINCOLN: The
Prairie Years AND
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iy CARL SAND-
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158. GOREN'S
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CHURCHILL. Vol.
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434. THE DEVIl
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138. REMEl
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409. THE AFFAIR
by c. P. SNOW
(Retail price
$4.50)
114. WHAT WE
MUST KNOW
ABOUT COMMU-
NISM by HARRY
and BONARO
OVERSTREET
(Ret. price $3.95)
164. WHEN WE
WERE VERY
YOUNG AND
NOW WE ARE
SIX i> A.A.MILNE
Illustrated.
Both vols, for $1
163. WINNIE THE
POOH AND THE
HOUSE AT POOH
CORNER by A. A.
MILNE. Illustrated
by E. H. SHEPARD
Both vols, for $1
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LETTERS
The Coming Bust in
the Building Boom
To THE Editors:
I don't know Daniel M. Friedenberg
but I've been a real estate operator and
builder for 50 years, 47 of which have
been right here in San Francisco. Fve
built 266 commercial buildings in my
day. In fact, I believe that I've built
more commercial buildings in San Fran-
cisco than anyone else so I should be a
bit familiar with the business. . . . Mr.
Friedenl^erg's article, "The Coming Bust
in the Real Estate Boom" [June], is
right oiu of this world and your com-
pany has done a great service to the
investing public by printing it.
Louis R. LuRiE
San Francisco, Calif.
Mr. Friedenberg's article should be re-
quired reading for students of architec-
ture and city planning in our univer-
sities. It is a sobering reminder of the
distance between the lUopias taught
under the heading of city planning and
the reality as practiced "in the field."
Jan Reiner, Architect
St. Petersburg, Fla.
We can only surmise that Mr. Fried-
enberg would prefer his offices in an old-
fashioned loft rather than in a modern
building. He does not, it appears, favor
such contemporary advances as air-con-
ditioning, electronic elevators, metal
facades and tower construction. We, as
builders, find these are what appeal to
tenants.
We take serious issue with the allega-
tions that today's buildings are inferior.
If this were true, would the country's
blue-chip corporations demand that their
names \)e attached to the skyscrapers
being l)uilt in vast preponderance by the
investment builder? Does he seriously
entertain the notion that the giants of
American industry sign willy-nilly, some-
how blindfolded, long-term leases?
In (act, all buildings are fine-tooth-
combed by a battery of experts: inspec-
tors of New York's Department of
liuildings; independent architects and
engineers employed by financing institu-
tions; the tenants themselves who hire
consultants to conduct a nuts-and-bolts
inspection of the space they will be
cominiiiing themselves tcj over a jcnig
period.
Mr. Friedenberg ascribes hypnotic
powers to builders and claims they have
hired "Madison Avenue publicists to
persuade tenants that they need enor-
mous floors." As builders of many of
New York's largest office buildings, we
must point out that the demand for
entire floors came from large corpora-
tions in the interest of their efficiency.
Heretofore, most tenants took only parts
of floors.
He accuses the Real Estate Board of
conspiring with builders to cheat tenants
by including toilets, corridors, slop-sink
closets, etc. in full-floor measurements.
He omits the fact that these same
facilities are excluded in Real Estate
Board computations for divided floors.
Full-floor tenants use exclusively these
facilities and they are therefore included
in their rentable area.
Mr. Friedenberg states that the Pru-
dential Insurance Company "obligingly"
saved us from "a desperate situation" in
building 666 Fifth Avenue. Far from be-
ing desperate, we were building at that
time two office buildings in California,
four 15-story apartment buildings in
Brooklyn, a 21-story office building in
Cleveland, and a 20-story office building
in Buffalo. There was in fact no sale-
leaseback arrangement made with Pru-
dential until 666 Fifth Avenue had been
substantially rented. We bought the
land and envisioned the building of 666
a full two years before any financial
commitment was obtained from Pru-
dential.
We resent very much the author's alle-
gations which do not apply in any way
to the many reputable real estate com-
panies, in which group we include
Tishman Realty & Construction Co.,
Inc. Tishman Realty, investment build-
ers since 1898, is listed on the New York
Stock Exchange and is one of the major
firms in the United States engaging in
all phases of real estate operations:
property acquisition, construction, rent-
ing, and management.
For over 62 years we have built apart-
ment houses, office buildings, and shop-
ping centers, representing a total invest-
ment c)f close to a l)illion dollars. We
now own and operate properties that
include more than 7,500 residential
rooms and 3,500,000 square feet of office
s))ace, and are presently constructing
five major ay)artnient buildings in four
cities aggregating over $^0 million of
construction cost. Compare this experi-
ence with Mr. Friedenberg's.
\oK\iAN Tishman, Pres.
Tisliiii.iii R( ;ilty (ionstruction (x)., Inc.
New York, N. Y.
The Author Replies:
Nothing in my article attacked "such
contemporary advances as air-condition-
ing." The attack was made against the
habit of downgrading or deliberately
cheapening building products. I praised
certain buildings, such as the Lever
Brothers and Seagram buildings, though
these also are built in full contemporary
design. It is ncjt "contemporary" but
bogus contemporary I attacked.
Many giants of American industry do
not know what they get [when they con
tract for a building] and only wake up
later. Most of these leases are made on
a very high level and the details are
handled by subordinates much later.
The "inspectors of New York's Depart
ment of Buildings," etc., are concerned
with what is legal, not a superior or
inferior product, and the representatives
of insurance companies and banks are
only concerned that the buildings be
constructed according to the Plans and
Specifications.
Mr. Tishman is only repeating what
the publicists are told to repeat regard-
ing the "efficiency" of large floors.
Mr. Tishman is explaining the ration-
ale of why tenants occupying single
floors pay for nonusable space, non-
usable in the sense that the space can-
not be employed in the direct pursuit
of tenants' business. The outside walls
exclusively protect full-floor tenants and
the elevators stopping at their floors are
for their exclusive use. Why not include
these spaces as well, following the argu
ment?
It would seem, according to Mr. Tish-
man's own statement, that one factor iti]
the financial background of 666 Fift
Avenue was overexpansion. Of course;
the Tishman interests bought the Ian
years before the financial commitment
You do not obtain financing before you
have something to finance.
In conclusion, I might add that the
roar arising from my article indicates
the old adage that the truth hurts.
Daniel M. Friedenberg
New York, N. Y.
Runaway Reactor
To THE Editors:
Ralph E. Lapp has done an excellent'
job in "A Small Atomic Accident"
[June] describing the circinnstances sur-
rounding the SL-1 nuclear excursion
which cau.sed the tragic loss of threes
lives at the Atomic Energy Commission's
National Reactor Testing Station in
Idaho. The AFL-CIO has for many yt ll^
been urging strong standards and regu-
lations dealing with the ojieration of
reactors and the use of other fissionable
materials of less than critical mass in
medicine, industry, agriculture, and re-
I
|[
CHOOSE EITHER MACBETH or THE TAMING OF THE SHREW
>iuiti:r§§
FREE
\"A moving and brilliant Macbeth."
TIME MAGAZINE
^^:"^
"The Taming of the Shrew is as light
as a charlotte riisse and it is played
that way . . , Trevor Howard as the
swaggering husband, Margaret
Leighton as the lady ivho learns her
Planners and Robert Stephens as the
servant turned master, propel the
farce along."
THE NEW YORK TIMES
AS YOUR INTRODUCTION TO THE
Shakespeare Recording Society
Here is your opportunity to add to your record collection the consummate performances
of Shakespeare's works . . . recorded specifically for home listening enjoyment by
Caedmon Records for the Shakespeare Recording Society. Each of Shakespeare's plays
is being recorded complete, in full length productions ... in brilliant high fidelity,
monaural or stereo . . . and featuring the outstanding actors and actresses of our times:
Sir John Gielgud
Sir Ralph Richardson
Sir Michael Redgrave
Albert Finney
Trevor Howard
Dame Peggy Ashcroft
Dame Edith Evans
Claire Bloom
Siobhan McKenna
Celia Johnson
Margaret Leighton
Richard Burton
Stanley Holloway
Cyril Cusack
Frank Silvera
Anthony Quayle
. . . and dozens of others
'Tit beauty truly blent"
Twelfth Night, ACT I, SCENE 5
The Shakespeare Recording Society series com-
bines outstanding stagecraft, scholarship, pack-
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living Shakespeare you and your family will
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Never before has such a distinguished company
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Each record set is packaged in a handsome,
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"The gift doth stretch itself ..."
Alfs Well that Ends Well, ACT II, SCENE 1
When you join the Shakespeare Recording So-
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either Macbeth or The Taming of the Shrew.
Then, with your fifth purchase and with every
four purchases thereafter, you will receive, as a
bonus, a Caedmon spoken-word recording or set.
"Thrift, thrift, Horatio!"
Hamlet. ACT I, SCENE 2
Six plays are now available from the Society:
Macbeth • The Taming of the Shrew
Othello • The Winter s Tale
Romeo and Juliet * Measure for Measure
Additional performances will be released on the
average of one every two months. Two-record
sets are available to members for S8.90; you
pay only S12.90 for three records— plus a small
charge for postage and handling. These special
members' discounts are far below regular retail
prices. You may choose either monaural or
itereo at the same low prices, and need buy only
three albums, in addition to your initial pur-
chase, the first year you are a member. You may
cancel your membership any time thereafter.
In addition, the Society has prepared a limited
supply of 9 X 1 2 reproductions of a new Lionel
Dillon drawing of Shakespeare— a striking black-
and-white wood-cut portrait— suitable for fram-
ing. These portraits are not for sale anywhere,
at any price, but are free to new members.
"The affair cries haste ..."
Othello, ACT I, SCENE 3
Use this handy coupon now to enroll in the Shakespeare Recording Society. Enroll
promptly . . . and receive an extra bonus— the Dillon drawing of Shakespeare— free.
MEMBERSHIP ENROLLMENT FORM
Please enroll me as a member of the Shakespeare Recording Society, Inc., and
send me the album checked as my free gift: □ Macbeth □ The Taming of the Shrew
Also send me, as a gift, the portrait of Shakespeare by Lionel Dillon.
Whether I choose stereophonic or monaural albums,
I will pay 58.90 for each two-record album; SI 2.90
for three-record albums— plus a small charge for
postage and handling. I may order as many sets of
a particular play as I wish at these special prices.
Additional Shakespeare works— released on an, aver-
age of one every two months— will be described
in advance. I may reject recordings simply by re-
turning the form provided.
I agree to buy four albums ( including my initial
order ) the first year I am a member, and am free
to cancel any time thereafter. If I continue as a
member, I shall receive with my ftfth purchase, and
with every four purchases thereafter, a free Caedmon
spoken-word recording or set. ( I understand that
my free gift album does not constitute a purchase. )
In addition to my free album, send me, as my
initial membership selection, the ' album or
albums checked:
□ Macbeth, with Anthony Quayle, Gwen Ffrangcon
Davies and Stanley Holloway. (Two-record album,
S8.9O)
Q The Taming of the Shrew, with Trevor Howard
and Margaret Leighton. (Two-record album, S8.90)
□ Othello, with Frank Silvera, Cyril Cusack, Celia
Johnson and Anna Massey, (Three-record album,
SI2.9O)
□ The Winter's Tale, with Sir John Gielgud and
Dame Peggy Ashcroft. (Three-record album,
$12.90)
Q Romeo and Juliet, with Claire Bloom, Albert
Finney and E>ame Edith Evans. ( Three-record al-
bum, S 12.90)
□ Measure for Measure, with Sir John Gielgud,
Margaret Leighton and Sir Ralph Richardson.
(Three-record album, $12.90)
Until further notice, send records in:
D Monaural (can be played on any 3.^/^ RPM
phonograph )
D Stereo ( can be played only on stereophonic
equipment)
Save extra money! □ Check here if you are
including payment for your initial order now—
saving the Society billing expense— and we will pay
postage and handling charges on your first shipment.
(New York City residents, please add 3^? sales tax)
Name
(PLEASE PRINT)
Address
City
Zone State
H1H
The Shakespeare Recording Society, Inc., 461 Eighth Avenue, New York I, N. Y.
8
LETTERS
search. . . . The experience of organized
labor in the nuclear field during the
past several years leads to these three
general observations:
1. An indispensable element of a
progressive peaceful atomic program is
confidence of workers and the general
public that such progress can be attained
with a minimum of risk to their health
and safety.
2. The attainment of such a general
atmosphere of confidence has been
severely hampered because of over-
emphasis by the AEC on the promo-
tional aspects of peaceful atomic de-
velopment and underemphasis on sound
and uniform safety standards and regu-
lations and their adequate enforcement.
3. The administrative machinery
within the AEC for carrying out sound
regulatory programs in the field of radia-
tion health and safety is outstandingly
inadequate and in need of drastic over-
hauling.
Andrew J. Biemiller
Dir., Dept. of Legislation
Chmn., AFL-CIO Staff Subcommittee
on Atomic Energy & Natural Resources
Washington, D. C.
Fhe Author Explains:
I would like to clarify the formal ad-
ministrative setup at the AEC's Idaho
station mentioned in my article. The
.\EC has over-all responsibility for the
station. It contracts with several pri-
vate firms for reactor site operations,
Combustion Engineering Inc. being the
operating contractor for the SL-1 reactor.
Military personnel at the SL-1 site were
under the general supervision of Com-
bustion Engineering Inc. The SL-1
reactor was part of the program of
the Army Reactors Branch of the AEC's
Division of Reactor Development. The
Department of Defense did not have
responsibility for this SL-1 reactor.
This is a rather complex relationship
which I feel should be spelled out in
detail.
The release of the AEC's report on
SL-1 on June 11 as well as the thorough
public airing of the issue by Representa-
tive Chet Holifield (Joint Committee on
Atomic Energy) sets forth full details of
the SL-1 accident. As a critic of the
.AEC, I am pleased to state that the
Commission has acted promptly and
candidly in making information avail-
aljle about this unfortunate accident.
Ralph E. Lapp
Alexandria, Va.
Neiv Look in Comedy
If) TiiK Editors:
"The Anierifan Negro's N<vv Ojincdy
Ad" by Louis V.. Lomax [fuiH | is one ol
the finest "textbooks" a second, uv silmol
can hope to locate. Such an article is
particularly useful to. me in teaching
the second-year American literature
course in which we attempt to present
Huck Finn and Saroyan's The Human
Comedy as examples of American
humor. . . .
Barbara Keith Gelehrter
Thayer Academy
Braintree, Mass.
'^^Dear Senator' Dilemma
To THE Editors:
I thoroughly enjoyed Ellen Davis'
article "Don't Write Your Congressman,
Unless . . ." [Easy Chair, June]— so many
good and constructive points made with
a sense of humor and perspective. Here's
hoping my constituents find it enlight-
ening!
Hubert H. Humphrey
Member of the Senate, Minnesota
Washington, D. C.
I do not doubt the truth of Ellen
Davis' article. It is deplorable that so
much of our tax money goes into attend-
ing to the enormous quantity of mail
sent to our Washington representatives.
. . . But there is merit in a shcjrt letter
to the point from an informed con-
stituent.
The Friends Committee on National
Legislation, 245 2nd Street, Washington
2. D. C, gets out a Washington News-
letter which gives one accurate informa-
tion about measures to be brought up
in Congress or legislation concerning
them. By subscribing at S3 a year, one
can keep informed and write a short
communication about ihe questions on
which one feels strongly. I have liad my
Representatives tell me that they value
this sort of rapport and surely it is the
duty of the interested citizen to speak
out.
Helen S. Eaton
Duxbury, Mass.
I found myself in accord with prac-
tically every point Ellen Davis made.
I am not sure, however, that the way to
remedy the situation is to admonish
"Don't Write. . . ." Although most of the
letters written to the Congressman aren't
read by him, they are read by someone
on his staff [who] in turn, talks to
[hiui]. It is possible to inHuence the
Congressman through persuading a staff
member, so it would be a shame to stop
writing the Congressman just because he
can't read each letter personally.
In fact, sometimes there are not
enough letters. We, too, go to Capitol
Hill and our ex|)erience has been that
there is a great deal of mail on the so-
called 'pockctl)C)ok" issues, i)ut on other
legislation which may have just as im-
portant an effect there seems to be no
constituency. Often staff members— or
even the Congressmen themselves— will
say to us, "We are hearing only from
the people who feel they will be hurt by
this legislation. We are not hearing
from anyone who is talking for the
public interest. If we vote for this bill
we are going to have a hard time justi-
fying our action to our constituents un-
less we get some mail."
There is also something to be said for
the sincere letter from those with back-
grounds less impressive than that of
George Kennan. Writing a letter has an
effect on the writer as well as on the
person who receives it. Having com-
mitted himself in writing he feels a sort
of proprietary interest in the bill; he
watches the paper to see how the legisla-
tion is faring; he adds to his own knowl-
edge in the field and his experience with
government. If he gets a thoughtful re-
ply to his communication, whether it is
staff written or not, his next letter may
show more concern, more knowledge of
the subject. . . .
I hope Mrs. Davis' article will be
widely read and lead to an improved
quality of correspondence both to and
from Capitol Hill.
Mrs. Robert J. Phillips, Pres.
League of Women Voters of the U. S.
Washington, D. C.
Riesman Clarified
To the Editors:
A passage in my article, "Riesman and
His Readers" [June], appears to have
misinterpreted his views. In my eager-
ness to abbreviate, I compressed into the
final paragraph his own position on
reducing Cold War tensions together
with that of his few colleagues who
espouse unilateral disarmament. He
himself does not, as I should have made
clear. In an article written with Michael
Maccoby for The New Left Review, he
distinguishes unilateral initiatives— such
as dismantling a base, or limiting the
rearmament of Western Germany— from
unilateral disarmament, which he does
not believe to be within the range of
possibility for the United States.
Eric Larrabee
New York N.Y.
i
i
Proving Twain
To the Editors:
".A Boston Ciirl," which appears in
your (une issue as "For the first time
published under the byline of Mark
Twain," was iciciiiificci moic iliaii three
years ago by Robert J. Lowenhcrz of
New York University and was leprintccl
in American Speech (Fcbruaiy iy.'J8)
8 times more
rural electric
power needed
by 1985
During the short twenty-five years they've
had electric power, consumer-owners of rural
electric systems have been increasing their
use of electricity 100% every six years.
Independent studies show an ever-increasing
demand for rural electric power. The desire
for modern conveniences in the home, cou-
pled with farm and rural industry needs for
electricity, will multiply present rural electric
power consumption 8 times more by 1985.
America's Rural Electric Systems, financed
by Rural Electrification Admin-
istration loans, are working now
to meet these future rural power
250
240
220
200
180
g 160
O
K
E-
i 140
O
.-I
O 120
to
2
o
ri 100
n
80
60
40
i
RURAL ELECTRIC
POWER SITUATION
J
1
;
f
i
«
li
11
mi
i
In
A
am
.<^
0
W \ \ \ \
r RURAL
POWER NEEDS
1 1 1
— .r^-C
co^
c,0^^
20
35 40 45 50 55 60 65 70 75 80 85
Source: NRECA, Washington, D.C.
requirements — installing bigger poles, larger
wires, heavier transformers. This requires
adding annual investments of 8 to 12 per cent
of the original value of each system — dou-
bling the investment in just ten years.
Long-range, low-cost financing is necessary
for rural electrics to properly serve their
sparsely settled areas. They'll continue to sup-
ply these areas — all consumers, large or small,
near or far — with electricity at the lowest pos-
sible cost. And rural electrics will repay every
cent of their REA loans, with interest. Already
they have repaid nearly $l'/2 billion in prin-
cipal and interest on their $3'/2 billion loans.
NRECA
AMERICA'S RURAL ELECTRIC SYSTEMS
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Don't blindfold him!
»nnHE AWESOME-looking instrument
•^ in the picture above is an electron
microscope. Through it, a cancer re-
searcher can observe the detail of a
cancer cell— magnified 100,000 times.
The microscope costs $35,000
and was paid for by American
Cancer Society funds — which
support 1300 scientists, all
working to find the cause of
cancer, and its prevention.
Don't blindfold cancer re-
search. Give to it. Send your con-
tribiition to CANCER, c/o your
local |)()st office.
AMERICAN CANCER SOCIETY
LETTERS
under the title "Mark Twain on Usage."
As proof of Mark Twain's authorship,
Charles Neider at the end of your re-
printing cites the article's general style
and its inclusion of an incident which
recurs in the Autobiography; further
proof was discovered by Mr. Lowenher/
in an unpublished letter dated April ■<(),
1890, from Howells to Mark Twain
which refers to the article.
Allan F. Hubbf.i.i.
Editorial Board, American Speech^
New York, N.
Mr. Neider Replies:
Frederick Anderson, assistant editor ol
the Mark Twain papers at Berkeley, wh(
brought the item to my attention, als<
"identified" it as Twain's, but did noj
feel he had proof. My discovery of th(
internal evidence clinched the author-i
ship. 1 bow to Mr. Lowenherz's prioi
publication, though American Speed
Ibit out 56 of a total of 245 lines
omitting precisely the nub of the inl
ternal proof— the incident of the circuh
driveway— and relegated the piece tl
"Miscellany" in the back.
Mr. Lowenherz's "proof" rested on
letter of Howells' to Twain, which MrJ
Lowenherz dated April 30, 1890. Thii
may be a misprint; to my knowledge
there is no such letter. Presumably,
was referring to a letter of April 31
1880, which begins: "I want to put tl
Conversation into the next number, aril
so I suppose you can't simultane. I r(
turn the letter, and a proof of a Club."
The editors of the definitive Afarj
Twain-Howells Letters suggest this rt
ferred to another piece— on obituai
eloquence,
Charles Neidi
New York, N.
Spitting Image^
To the Editors:
Concerning Burt Goldblatt's cover o
the June issue, my wife and I have a
serious bet of fifty smackers. I say it
an infrared photo of the Battery in N
York City. She says it is an X-ray of the
coronary network of a bull moose altei
a massive thrombosis. Please settle thi
argument.
Henry L. Footi
San Jose, Calif
An Editor's Answer:
I guess you'll have to pay up. Th
])ull moose your observant wife ha
identified is called (or will l)e) Lincoli
Center for the Performing Arts. Thi
however, is not its coronary network. 1
has no heart, nor, 1 d()ul)t, ever wi
have.
Ri SSI I I. I.VM
New \ Oik, N. '
..
JOHN FISCHER
the editor^s
EASY CHAIR
Yugoslavia's Flirtation with
Free Enterprise
Part II of a Puzzled Report
on an Ex-Satellite
IN BELGRADE a few weeks ago the finan-
cial director of a tobacco factory told me why
he was so desperately eager to get to the United
States.
"I want to learn how you Americans sell ciga-
rettes," he said, "and I need to learn fast. Ten
years ago, selling was no problem in Yugoslavia.
All the business was handled by a state mo-
nopoly, which had a hard time turning out
enough cigarettes to supply the stores— and not
very good cigarettes, either.
"Now we have a dozen competing tobacco en-
terprises, each one trying to put out better brands
in more attractive packages. I am advertising
my factory's products in magazines and news-
papers, on radio and billboards. We've even
tried cutting prices. But unsold cigarettes are
still piling up in our warehouse. So I have to
find out all I can about American distribution
methods right away."
This man thinks he is a good Communist. Yet
Marxist theory offers him no help with his man-
agement problems— problems which would sound
as familiar as "Sweet Adeline" to any American
executive.
• In Titograd— a brand-new city slowly rising at
the foot of the most desolate mountain range
in Europe— the Reclame Advertising Agency is
trying to introduce Madison Avenue to Mon-
tenegro. It is a private (and apparently prosper-
ous) venture, turning out signs, publicity releases,
layouts, and copy for all comers.
• Another small businessman— an iron molder
who makes castings for garages and factories—
recently paid a fine of three million dinars for
fudging on his income tax. Apparently it caused
him little pain, since he keeps a handsome villa
in Belgrade, another on the Dalmatian coast, a
pair of gardeners at each place, and two limou-
sines.
• One Sunday morning I strolled past a Zagreb
apartment house with an unusually thick cluster
of TV aerials on its roof.
"A lot of doctors live there," my companion
explained. "They are always rich. In your coun-
try too, I think?"
For a supposedly Communist country, Yugo-
slavia produces a surprising number of "rich"
people— not big rich in Texas terms, but com-
fortably well off by normal standards.* Among
those I got to know are an architect, a free-lance
* By far the richest, in terms of real income, is Tito.
The splendor of his way of life makes Onassis look
like a poor boy— indeed, it outshines any royal family
left in Europe. A palace or villa always is ready for
him in any city or resort he might want to visit. I
saw only five— those in Belgrade, Zagreb, Ljubljana,
Lake Bled, and Split— but one government official
told me that he thought the total number of Tito's
residences was forty-one. Some of these, he added,
may now have been converted to other purposes,
since the old gentleman no longer travels as much as
he once did.
When he goes abroad— he likes to spend his winters
in warm, neutral countries; Southeast Asia last year,
Africa this, Latin America next— his yacht is accom-
panied by most of the Yugoslav navy. His uniforms
are the most refulgent since Goering's. (According to
his friend and biographer. Sir Fitzroy Maclean, Tito
always was a snappy dresser, from the days when he
was a metal worker in a machine shop. During the
years while he was an underground organizer for the
Party, he posed as a wealthy engineer and escaped
the attentions of the police by staying at the best
hotels. His first big money— the fee paid by Moscow
for his translation of the official Communist party
history into Serbo-Croatian— he spent, in most un-
proletarian fashion, for a big diamond ring which he
still wears.)
None of this seems to cause any marked resentment
among the Yugoslavs. For example, a man who bit-
terly criticized Premier Kardelj for driving a Mer-
cedes, a moment later spoke with pride about Tito's
three Rolls-Royces and his 1961 Cadillac. Even
people who are hostile to the Communist party and
the government are likely to refer to Tito reverently
and affectionately.
This is not, I think, merely a "cult of personality"—
although Tito's portrait did adorn every office and
schoolroom that I saw, and the front page of nearly
every paper is largely devoted to chronicling his move-
ments and sayings. Because he liberated the country
from both the Nazis and the Russians, and then
unified it in an unexpectedly successful federation,
his people seem quite willing to accord him a unique
status— combining the roles of Joan of Arc, George
Washington, and a Byzantine monarch. And they are
still Balkan enough to enjoy, vicariously, his own
taste for panache and finery.
12
THE EDITOR'S EASY CHAIR
'"Vile Concoction"
On June 13 the Literary Gazette of Moscow
published a two-column article about Harper's
special supplement, "The Mood of the Russian
People," published in May. Among the epithets
used to describe the editors, our contributors.
and their Soviet sources were: "spiritual and
physical trash" and "the morose outpourings"
of "contemptible whiners." The article winds
up with a reference to a Russian folk tale
about a rooster Avho found a pearl in a pile of
manure. Harper's, however, "has attempted in
vain to emulate the winged rooster. Soiling
itself with the manure of petty gossip, it has
found only some mournful Avorms, afraid of the
daylight, with which from time to time one can
get a nilible from an undiscriminating fish in
the fetid pool of the 'Cold War.' "
The Editors
scientist, and a woman sculptor. (Yugoslavs love
monuments and pay well for them Their best
known sculptor, Mestrovic, long resident in
America, is a national hero.)
The scientist had joined with six friends a few
years ago to start a research institute. Today it
employs some two hundred people, and the man-
agers can fix salaries (including their own) as
high as they like. Moreover, they can divide up
85 per cent of the enterprise's earnings as they
see fit— for bonuses, new equipment, or promo-
tion expenses. My friend's chief complaint is that
he can no longer do as much scientific work as
he would like, because he now spends most of his
time on the road, drumming up contracts for
new industrial-research projects. In all essentials,
so far as I could see, his business operates much
like similar firms in the United States.
• A paper mill is making so much money that it
has built three Olympic-size swimming pools for
its staff— all within a stone's throw of the Sava
River, where the employees used to swim hap-
pily enough in humbler days.
Meanwhile newspapers and publishing houses
complain that paper prices are too high. They
can't produce really low-priced books, magazines,
and newspapers— with the result that even the
Party's propaganda programs arc hamstrung. Yet
nobody in Yugoslavia, induding Tilo himself,
feels able to order the mill to cut its prices. All
the government can do, under its pecidiai con-
cept of its role, is to bring indired market pres-
sures to bear. So it is now threatening to lower
paper tariffs or maybe lo finance the building of
a cf)mpeting factory.
These cases indicate how lar Yugoslavia has
moved from ortliodox Marxism since it broke
away from the Soviet camp in !!)1H. It is now
trying, with considerable success, to devise an
entirely new kind of economic system, quite dif-
ferent from anything you will find either in
America or in Russia.
This system has not yet taken final shape. A
group of able young economists and adminis-
trators—many of them with some experience in
the United States— are tinkering with it con-
stantly. They are surprisingly unhampered by
Marxist ideology, and they aren't afraid to admit
mistakes; if one experiment doesn't work, they
are quick to try another. Unlike the Chinese and
the Russians, they do not cling stubbornly to an
unworkable scheme simply because it is pre-
scribed in the Holy Writ of St. Marx and St.
Lenin.
What will finally emerge, I suspect, -will be a
tmique blend of capitalist and socialist notions—
a mixed economy with a good deal of public
ownership (at least in theory) but depending
heavily on free markets, competition, the profit
motive, individual enterprise and a growing flow
of trade with the West. In some ways it may
even turn out to be less "socialistic" than the
different sort of mixed economy which we are
developing. Farming, for example, is now- less
subject to government controls in Yugoslavia
than in America.
If this Yugoslav invention works, it may prove
an attractive pattern for many of the underde-
veloped countries of Asia, Africa, and Latin
America.
After all, they resemble Yugoslavia much more
closely than they do either Russia or the United
States— in size, in resources, in the nature of their
problems, and in their stage of political develop-
ment. Most of them are poor soil for democracy*
—a delicate and exotic plant, which seems to
flourish only under quite special circumstances.
A glance at history indicates that stable demo-
cratic societies have stirvived for any considerable
time only when they have had: (1) an Anglo-
Saxon political tradition; (2) a strong infusion
of Protestantism, with its toleration of phnalism;
(3) fairly high standards of living and education;
(4) a strategic situation which made large stand-
ing armies tinnecessary— usually because the bor-
ders were protected by seas, mountains, or other
physical barriers. In the Latin, Catholic coun-
tries—Spain, Italy, France, and South America-
democracy so far has taken only precarious root.
And the new countries which emeiged from the
two world wars mostly started out with demo-
cratic forms, but replaced them fairly quickly
with some kind of authoritarian government— as
we have seen in Turkey, Egypt, Pakistan, Korea,
Iraq, and Ghana, to mention only a few.
* An extraordinary article by 1 Ispcth HuxUy in
ilic June issue of Enrninilcr explains how unsuitaljle
—how unthinkable— democracy seems lo millions of
Africans.
Moreover, an authoritarian gov-
ernment of one sort or another seems
almost indispensable to most of the
underdeveloped countries. It offers
the only quick road to their primary
goal: industrialization. That de-
mands rapid accumulation of capital.
Although foreign aid can provide a
small fraction, most of this capital
has to come from local savings. And
in a poor country there won't be any
savings to amount to anything, unless
they are forced— by a government
strong enough (and free enough
from democratic pressures) to hold
down consumption and channel a
large share of the nation's output
into capital goods.
IT seems likely, therefore, that au-
thoritarian governments will become
the established pattern, for at least
a few generations, throughout much
of the world. Often there may not
be much we can do to prevent it.
(As we could not prevent it in Korea
recently for all the men and money
we have invested there.)
But we may be able in some cases
to influence a country toward the
kind of authoritarianism which is
least harmful. A country bossed by
an Ayub or a Bourguiba is plainly
better off than one bossed by a
Trujillo or a Nasser; a Tito is in-
finitely preferable to a Castro. In-
deed, any independent state, however
authoritarian, is more hopeful than
a satellite of Russia or China— if only
because it has a chance to evolve
someday toward a greater degree of
freedom.
In some parts of the world, the
Yugoslav model may prove the most
practical alternative to the Soviet
system. Both are labeled "socialist"
—and, reluctant as we may be to
admit it, "socialism" has become a
good word (and "capitalism" a bad
one) to the ears of millions of people
in the more primitive underde-
veloped countries. The historic rea-
sons for this include the association
of "capitalism" with colonialism,
throughout Asia and Africa, plus
forty years of Marxist indoctrina-
tion, aimed especially at the young
politicians and intellectuals of these
areas. Consequently, the Yugoslavs
are careful to describe their society
as "socialist," no matter how much
capitalist practice they may pour
into the mixture. They know it
makes their product more salable to
hordes of potential customers.
It might be sensible, then, for us
to look beyond the label and try to
analyze what actually is going into
the bottle. For it may turn out to
be the lesser evil in those lands
where our possibilities to influence
the choice are limited— and where
the choice lies not between socialism
or democratic capitalism, but be-
tween Russian domination and an-
other brand of socialism not quite so
distasteful.
BEFORE going to Yugoslavia, I
was pretty skeptical about its "inde-
pendence." Was it real? If so, how
long could it last? Until recently a
Russian satellite, it is surrounded on
three sides by Communist states; its
foreign policy usually looks like a
pale carbon of the Kremlin's; and
periodically Tito reopens his on-
and-off flirtation with Khrushchev.
So it should surprise no one if he
should drift back one of these days
into the Soviet harem. Or so it
seemed to me.
Not any longer. Anybody who
takes a careful, firsthand look will be
persuaded, I think, that in fact Yu-
goslavia is drifting the other way . . .
that it probably has already passed
the Point of No Return . . . and that
nothing short of a military conquest
is now likely to bring it back into
the Russian camp. Some reasons for
this view were mentioned here last
month— but the main reason is the
peculiar way in which the Yugoslavs
are shaping their economy.
During the four years when Yugo-
slavia was a satellite, from 1944 to
1948, it got a bellyful of Soviet-style
economics. Stalin tried to impose
his kind of Marxism, in its most
rigid and ruthless form— and the re-
sults were disastrous.
When the peasants were forced
into collective farms, they went on a
sit-down strike and the country
nearly starved to death. When the
local planners sketched out blue-
prints for a new industry, Stalin said
"No"; his plan was to keep Yugo-
slavia as a colony, producing raw
materials for Russian factories.
When a Serb or Croat plant man-
ager came up with a bright idea, his
Russian advisers told him, contemp-
tuously, to forget it; they would do
the thinking, and they meant to do
JVit consists in knowing the
resemblance of things which
differ, and the difference of
things which are alike.
Madame de Stael's definition of
wit might also serve as a defini-
tion of successful investing, which
is essentially a selective art.
For obviously, all stocks in a
particular industry have some char-
acteristics in common — yet they
may go their separate ways in the
market. And conversely, stocks in
industries that appear to be unre-
lated may tend to move together
because of some unseen basic com-
mon denominator, as with auto-
mobile manufacturing and rubber.
Successful investing is a matter of
making correct distinctions when
faced with choices.
Not everyone, of course, is
gifted with wit, which is probably
inborn. Nor is everyone able to
make the necessary distinctions
for success in the stock market.
But we have wide experience and
deep knowledge of the market
and its behavior, and both are at
your disposal.
We maintain a sizable Research
Department staffed by people who
make it their business to discover
the distinctions that may mean
the difference between profit and
loss. Their services are yours to
command, without charge or obli-
gation, whether you want infor-
mation about a specific company
or industry, a review of your pres-
ent holdings, or suggestions for
the investment of any sum of
money, large or small, that you
have available.
Just write to Research, outlin-
ing your situation, and allow time
for a well-considered reply.
MERRILL LYNCH,
PIERCE,
FENNER & SMITH
IN CORPORATED
Members New York Stock Exchange
70 PINE STREET, NEW YORK S, N. Y.
LONDON 110 Fenchurch Street
PARIS 7 Rue de la Paix
143 offices in U. S., Canada, and abroad
14
THE EDITOR'S EASY CHAIR
it strictly according to Tlie Book.
A people as touchy and proud as
the Yugoslavs were bound to rebel
against this sort of thing. And they
—unlike the Hungarians and East
Germans— were able to make their
rebellion stick because they had not
been "liberated" by the Red Army
at the end of World "War II. They
had liberated themselves; conse-
quently the Kremlin never did get
complete control of the Yugoslav
army, the police, or the Party ma-
chinery.*
Immediately after Tito's Declara-
tion of Independence— in an eight-
hour speech on Jidy 21, 1948— the
Yugoslavs began to dismantle the
Russian-designed economic system.
Their first necessity was to open
up trade with the West. Until then
they had depended on Russia and its
satellites for most of their imports,
and these were of course cut off at
once by the Kremlin blockade.
* When the break came, only one
general and two members of the Poh't-
buro tried to desert Tito for Stalin, and
they were easily disposed of. Among the
rank and file of the Yugoslav Communist
party, however, the Kremlin's influence
apparently ran deeper. I was told that
60,000 Stalinists were locked up in con-
centration camps in 1948, and that some
of them stayed there for six years.
Although it is obviously impossible to
be sure, I am inclined to believe the of-
ficial statement that today there are no
concentration camps, and relatively few
political prisoners. At least there is some
independent non-Yugoslav testimony to
support that claim; and ordinary citizens
certainly are far less fearful of the secret
police than they are in Russia and its
satellites. The most convincing evidence
is the freedom with which they talk to
foreigners, and the complete lack of
restrictions on the movements of foreign
visitors.
Although there is no police terror to-
day, the police apparatus still exists—
and it still seems to be heartily disliked.
When the government arranged a
"spontaneous demonstration" to protest
the assassination of I-umumba, the
crowd got out of hand, sacked the Bel-
gian embassy, broke a lot of store
windows— and sent fifty-two policemen
to the hospital. What the government
had meant to be a nonviolent demon-
stration against the lielgians and the
UN turned into a violent demonstration
against the jK>lice who were supp<jsed
to shepherd the parade. These facts
were never published in Yugoslavia—
nor, as far as 1 can learn, anywhere else.
Only because England and America
stepped in promptly with loans and
trade deals was Tito able to keep his
country afloat.
The next step was to scrap most of
the collective farms. Today 92 per
cent of the land is again owned and
worked by individual peasants— with
the restdt that the country has once
more become nearly self-sufficient in
food. (By American standards, Yu-
goslav agriculture is still inefficient,
because the peasants' farms are too
small; the biggest is only 25 acres.
Eventually the planners hope to
create enough factory jobs to siphon
a lot of surplus manpower off the
land, so that little plots can be
merged into economic units. Never-
theless, even the present arrangement
works far better than Russia's; as
this is written, Khrushchev has just
proclaimed another crisis in Soviet
agricidttire— the fourth since he came
to power.)
Most scandalous of all, from the
Russian j)oint of view, was the way
the Yugoslavs began to edge back
toward competition, free markets,
and the profit motive. They are
moving along two paths:
/. Private enterprise
IVIost small businesses— restatirants,
taxis, repair sliops, jDroduce markets,
the service trades— are now run by
individual entrepreneurs. Any Yugo-
slav is free to go into business for
himself— so long as he does not hire
tuore than five employees. Some of
them, like the iron molder men-
tioned earlier, are doing almost too
well. Beatity-shop operators, for in-
stance, are reputed to be the
wealthiest group in Belgrade; and
here, as elsewhere, the most ruthless
exploiters of the working class (and
everybody else) are the plumbers and
TV repairmen.
Much of the housing now going
up is also privately owned. You can
build your own home, and if you put
up a two-family house, yoti can rent
one of the units. Furthermore, if
you own a vacation place at the sea-
side or in the mountains (as a sur-
j^rising number of Yugoslavs do),
you (an rent that also— though no
landlord is permitted to rent more
than three units. II you jirefcr an
apartment, you can buy one in a co-
operative, just as New Yorkers do.
In cither case, the architect and
sometimes the contractor will be
working as a private businessman.
2. Competing corporations
The Yugoslavs call them "enter-
prises," but in most respects they
operate much like American corpora-
tions. Nominal control rests with a
workers' council, representing the
employees, just as nominal control
of our companies rests with the
shareholders; in both cases, however,
management is largely self-perpetu-
ating. (I did come across a few cases
in which the workers' council had
dismissed an incompetent or thie^-
ing manager— but I gathered that
this happens about as rarely as a
successful stockholders' revolt in the
United States.)
New ones start up all the time,
wherever somebody sees an oppor-
tunity to make a fast dinar. Any
three jieople can join together to
start an enterprise, putting up part
of the capital— usually about 10 per
cent— from their own savings; the
rest they borrow from an investment
bank, if the} can persuade r tlje
bankers that the venture looks prom-
ising. Sometimes they are established
by a trade union, or a group of
farmers who need a ntw tractor, or
by a village that wants a new indus-
try. Occasionally they fail, and go
out of business or get taken over by
a bigger enterprise.
And they really do compete. The
most noticeable competition, to a
foreign visitor, is in the tourist-
agency business. In thfe old days, all
such services were handled by Put-
nik, a government monopoly. It still
suffers a hangover from the chronic
ills of a monopoly— lethargy, indif-
ference, and incompetence. But some
of its young competitors, notably
Tourist Express, are as alert and
efficient as Thomas Cook's or the
American Express Company. One
young woman executive of Tourist
Express told me, with glee, that it is
snatching away more of Putnik's i
business every day. (She is even |
nursing a plan to persuade Pan i
American to go into partnership
with her firm to build a chain of
modern hotels throughout the cotm-
try.)
Competition in all fields began to
speed up a lew months ago, when
tlie government (with the help of a
.'ii27.5-million loan fioiii eight West
THE EDITOR'S EASY CHAIR
ern countries, including America)
made its currency freely convertible
at a standard rate of exchange-
something no other Communist
country has ever dared to try. At
the same time controls on foreign
trade were drastically relaxed. One
immediate result was a sharp rise in
pork prices, as the peasants began to
ship large numbers of pigs to Aus-
tria. Another was heavy pressure on
some industries— particularly the in-
efficient old monopolies, which now
have to compete with cheaper goods
pouring in from abroad. When
their managers screamed, the govern-
ment told them grimly that the soft
days are over; either they modernize,
step up productivity, and cut prices
—or go out of business.
WHAT happens to "socialist plan-
ning" under such a system?
Quite a lot has happened already.
The national economic plan is no
longer a cast-iron blueprint, which
tries to direct the use of every ton
of steel and man-hour of labor. Now
it is little more than a pious hope—
a fairly loose, general statement of
economic goals. Decisions have been
decentralized so far that Belgrade
no longer attempts a detailed day-
by-day control. A consequence (as
Americans might have predicted) is a
startling upsurge of initiative and
energy all down the line.
For essential, over-all control, the
government now relies mostly on the
same levers as we do— fiscal and
monetary policy, taxes, tariffs, inter-
est rates, and the banking system.
There, as in America, the flow of new
capital is channeled into the right
places primarily by the investment
banks.
But a crucial difference between
their economy and ours lies just
here. Their banks are arms of the
government. They try to make a
profit on their investments— indeed
they have to, since they pay 5 per
cent interest to their depositors—
but they also try to invest every
dinar where it will help most to de-
velop the country's economy.
As a result, the Yugoslavs argue,
they use their resources more ration-
ally than we do, from the viewpoint
of the national interest. They like
I to point out that they do not squan-
der millions on a yearly change of
auto models. Neither do they tear
down perfectly sound buildings to
put up sleazy ones in their place . . .
or ruin their most valuable scenic
assets with billboards and hot-dog
stands ... or pile up new skyscrapers
in areas already congested to the
point of strangulation. They grant
that they have learned a lot from us
in the last twelve years; but they hint
(not always very tactfully) that per-
haps we could learn something from
them too.
Maybe they have a point here.
But in fairness it should be noted
that even their kind of "socialist
planning," managed largely through
the banking system, is by no means
infallible. They have sometimes
poured money into football stadiums
and fancy fairgrounds when it could
have been used more sensibly for
new housing. They too have built
eyesores, imeconomic factories, mis-
placed housing projects, hotels as
tasteless as anything in Miami
Beach. And at the moment they are
seriously worried by inflation.
The only conclusions I would
dare to venture, on such brief ac-
quaintance, are:
1. For their particular circum-
stances—very different from ours—
their hybrid economy seems to work
pretty well. It has produced a faster
rate of growth than either the United
States or Russia; it is turning out a
larger proportion of consumers'
goods than any other "socialist"
country; it has, so far, avoided some
of the worst mistakes of both capital-
ism and communism.
2. It is moving, slowly but per-
ceptibly, toward the West. The in-
tegration this spring of Yugoslavia's
economy into the Western network
of international trade is likely to
have far-reaching consequences. So
is the growing reliance on economic
decentralization and individual in-
itiative.
3. In the end, these consequences
almost surely will be political as well
as economic. For economic freedom
tends to bring political freedom in
its train. Already the Yugoslav Com-
munist party has changed into some-
thing a Russian couldn't recognize.
That is too long a story to go into
here— but my hunch is that the
process is now irreversible. The
genie is out; nobody, including Tito,
could now stuff it back into a Soviet
bottle.
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AFTER HOURS
CULTURE-STRUCK CANADA
By Russell Lynes
AF E W hours after I arrived in
Toronto last spring I got into
a taxi in front of the O'Keefe Cen-
tre, the city's brand-new cultural
market basket, and asked the driver
to take me to the Canadian Broad-
casting Corporation's Studio 6.
"You in the television business?"
he asked me. He was a young man
in his twenties.
I told him I was not, that I was
merely going to appear briefly on an
interview show, "Seven-O-One."
"^Vhat do you think of Canadian
television?" he said.
I admitted that I had never seen
any Canadian television, though I
had heard that it was good. I asked
him what he thought of it. With not
the slightest hesitation but with an
after-taste of bile, he said: "They
keep trying to hit us with culture—
and they won't lay off it."
There is almost surely a lesson in
this for Mr. Minow, the new Federal
Communications Commission chair-
man, who beats American television
about the ears with such gusto for
its Tack of culture. It was the begin-
ning of a cultural lesson for me.
My reason for being in Toronto
was to take part in a three-day meet-
ing of the Canadian Conference of
the Arts, a sort of Olyrn})ian conven-
tion held on the slopes of Parnassus
with all of the muses in attendarur
in (heir best flresscs and h;its. Il was
Canada's first attempt to gafhci in
one place for several days the na-
tion's leading artists, composers,
writers, theatrical and dance folk,
museum directors, and others di-
rectly or indirectly in positions of
consequence in the artistic and cul-
tural life of the country. There were
also rectors of universities, city plan-
ners, government officials, historians,
clergymen, art collectors, business-
men, iuchitects, and those ubiquitous
handmaidens of the arts whom I like
to call the "culturettes."
"If the roof of this building fell
in," Mr. Alan Jarvis, the National
Director of the Conference of the
Arts, said to me, "it would wipe out
the arts in Canada. Everybody, al-
most everybody, who has anything to
do with the arts is here."
Canada is enjoying (if that is the
correct word, and it seemed to be)
a well-publicized and enthusiasti-
cally nurtured "cultural boom." The
boom got its impetus, I was told,
from the establishment in 1953 of
the Shakespeare Festival at Stratford,
Ontario, a venture that has brought
international acclaim to the Cana-
dian arts, and has drawn thousands
of people across Canada's borders to
see one of the liveliest theatre groups
in the world. Four vcars later, in
1957, art became an official responsi-
bility of the government when the
Liberals, who were then in power,
put up ^H)0 minion lo establish the
Canada (Council lf)t I lie purpose f)f
promoting the arts and of encour-
aging the talented. Half of this
splendid sum came from the death
duties levied upon the estate of Sir
James Dunn, the overlord of a coal
and steel empire. It seemed a splen-
did amount at the time but of course
the meager $3 million annual budget
of the Council which the fund makes
possible is already said to be too
little. The Council is asking for an-
other $280,000 a year for grants and
scholarships for artists. The arts, ac-
cording to the Council, "are begin-
ning to move out of the quadrangle
and into the market place."
There was certainly a sense of
bustle, confidence, and enthusiasm at
the O'Keefe Centre. The battalions
of culture were out in full panoply.
No one, I suppose, knows how many
people turned up for the conference,
but six thousand general-admission
tickets were sold at a dollar each dur-
ing the three days; obviously many
of the buyers were repeaters. There
were a number of "distinguished
guests" (as visitors to conferences are
always called) from abroad, most
notably Sir Julian Huxley and Jane
Drew, England's most "distin-
guished" woman architect; Robert
Whitehead, the Broadway producer;
Robert Whitney, the director of the
Louisville Orchestra; and the Ameri-
can sculptor, Isamu Noguchi.
But the guests were largely orna-
mental. The reason for the gather-
ing, like the reason for most conven-
tions, was to provide the participants
with a chance to parade their wares
and their personalities, to get to
know each other, and to talk, talk,
talk, talk. There was a large exhibi-
tion of paintings and sculpture by
Canadian artists; there was a pro-
gram of recently composed Canadian
symphonic music performed by the
orchestra of the Canadian Broad-
casting Corporation; there was an
evening of poetry readings by Can-
adian poets; and there were panel
discussions (which the program
called "commissions" for reasons that
were obscure even to the people who
had j)lanned the program) on the
Visual Arts, the Literary Arts, the
Dramatic Arts, Music, and, of course,
that catchall. Arts in Society. There
was something for everybody, a
(hance to be seen and heard.
The O'Keefe Centre was a suitable
|)la(e for a ( on vent ion concerned
with giving the arts a leg up. It is
1/
big, new, democratic, luxurious, and
cost $12 million of the O'Keefe Brew-
ing Company's money. I was told
I hat, since there are legal restrictions
on advertising of beer in the prov-
ince of Ontario, the Centre was a
publicity gesture. But be that as it
may, its purpose, according to its
president, is to "provide Toronto
with a multipurpose entertainment
center capable of meeting all tastes
with the best facilities available."
One Torontonian described it to me
as "a cultural rodeo." Its auditorium
seats 3,200 people; its stage is almost
the size of a small hockey rink; its
lobby is big enough to hold a large
exhibition of paintings and sculp-
ture. Downstairs there is a lounge in
which five hundred people sat down
to meals and, having eaten cold meat
and potato salad (several meals run-
ning) and drunk Canadian wine,
listened to speeches. It was in the
O'Keefe Centre that "Camelot"
opened its out-of-town trial run.
(The first performance lasted four
hours, and one critic reported: "It
was like 'Parsifal' with the jokes left
out.") The night on which the CBC
orchestra performed the concert of
Canadian music was the first time a
symphony had played there. A spe-
cial acoustical "shell" was erected on
the stage, and I was told with awe
that it had been built in England
and weighed twenty tans.
There was a pleasant air of carni-
val about the convention. Every
time the chairman of any one of the
dozen or so meetings made an an-
nouncement, he always concluded
his remarks with a reference to the
fact that the bar would be open.
(Obviously the committee was count-
ing on the thirst of the participants
to help meet the costs.) People milled
about with glasses in their hands
discussing the state of culture; men
and women from the CBC were for-
ever cornering artists and writers and
recording their words on tape for
broadcast; flash bulbs were popping.
A few bitter arguments enlivened a
few of the "commissions" but most
of them were peaceable talk-fests. (I
was involved in the Arts in Society
panel, which devoted its attention
to the problems of how cities have
gone to the dogs and what might be
done about them. We concluded
cheerfully that "It's never too late.")
So many people turned up for the
poetry reading on the first evening
that some of them had to stand on
the stairs leading down to the room
where the performance took place,
and some didn't get in at all. The
director of the conference used the
star's dressing-room (occupied the
week before by Sir Laurence Olivier)
as a sort of office, private bar, and
meeting place for the "distinguished
guests," one of whom got locked in
the bathroom and had to be extri-
cated by the building engineer.
"Could such a conference as this
happen in the States?" a number of
people asked me a number of times.
I said that I thought it most un-
likely; there would be little chance
to get so many people in responsible
positions in so many of the arts to-
gether; we are too big and our arts
are too segmented. But they did not
ask the question in order to hear my
answer. It was merely their way to
make me understand that the situa-
tion of the arts in Canada is very
different from that in the States.
"You sec," they said, and the fig-
ures of speech kept recurring, "Can-
ada is strung out like a string of
beads with great distances between
the beads. It's a ribbon three thou-
sand miles long and only about sixty
miles wide. There is no real com-
munication between those who are
doing things in the arts in, say, Van-
couver, and those in Montreal.
Our problem is communication."
IT IS true, of course, that if you
ask anybody these days what he
thinks is at the root of society's trou-
bles, he is likely to say "failure of
communication." (Do you remem-
ber when it used to be "failure of
distribution"?) But failure of com-
munication in the arts in Canada is
not just that Canadian artists don't
talk to each other; they talk across
the border to the south.
"I live in Vancouver," an attrac-
tive young woman composer ex-
plained to me. "I belong to the West
Coast much more than I belong to
Canada. If I'm part of a community
of artists, it's of artists in Vancouver,
Seattle, Portland, San Francisco."
It was obvious that one of the
reasons for the conference was to
make Canadian artists take artistic
Canada seriously, and to promote a
national pride in the national prod-
uct. Behind this was what seemed
to be a pervasive concern about be-
ing swallowed up artistically as well
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as financially by the United States.
As J. B. McGeachy in the Financial
Post wrote after the conference was
over, the visitors from abroad "don't
understand that the story of Canada
to date has been a persevering and
also fascinating effort to create here
a national identity distinct from that
of the U. S." Since national bound-
aries mean almost nothing to artists
and national styles have all but dis-
appeared from the arts of the West-
ern world, distinct national artistic
identity is, of course, almost impossi-
ble to come by. Artists are not in-
terested in it; chambers of commerce
are, and so are some politicians, pa-
trons, and promoters of the national
image. There is no reason why they
shouldn't be but it's a losing fight.
What I saw in the exhibition at the
O'Keefe Centre I might just as well
have seen at the Chicago Art Insti-
tute or the Museum in St. Louis.
Artists know that Regionalism has
long produced dead art, and is dead
as an aesthetic issue.
"One of our problems in Can-
ada . . ." (I began to think that
Canada had more artistic problems
than it had artists) "is that our cul-
ture is bilingual. We believe in it
and want to maintain it, but it isn't
helped by the fact that English is
abominably taught in the French
schools and that French is equally
badly taught in the English schools."
Throughout the conference when-
ever there was a formal session, as
opposed to the "commissions," there
was a mixture of French and Eng-
lish. When Father Georges-Henri
Levesque, the Vice-Chairman of the
Canada Council (of the arts), spoke
after a lunch, he started in mellif-
luous French and then after a few
minutes shifted to English and then
every few paragraphs or so switched
back and forth. He discoursed on
the importance of the arts, and when
he made his utterances in French
they sounded not only profound but
moving; the same sentiments when
he expressed them in English were
flat and ridden with cliches. Those
who introduced the speakers from
French (^atuuia trotted out their
schoolboy (or more frequently
schoolgirl) French for the occasion.
It made me fee! as though I were
JKick in (he classroom I)ut the audi-
ence obviously sufTcrccI from scll-
conscicjusfiess at hearing Frciu h
spoken with the hesitancy and flat-
ness with which most of them obvi-
ously spoke it themselves. They
laughed uneasily and apologized to
me for their compatriots.
INDEED, I have never been
apologized to so much in so few days
or for so little reason. It was like
Texas without the twang— nationally
proud but culturally full of misgiv-
ings, eager to be part of the world
but afraid that the home-grown prod-
uct was more to be cherished than
esteemed. Again and again it was
impressed on me that Canada thinks
of itself as a "young" nation, and
sometimes scarcely a nation at all,
but a suburb of the United States.
"Do you see any reason why Canada
shouldn't be part of the United
States?" I was asked more than once,
and when I said I didn't see any rea-
son why it should be, I found myself
having to defend the benefits of va-
riety against the benefits of bigness.
But this question was asked me by
artists and not by the promoters of
the arts. (McGeachy in the Finan-
cial Post said, "Nobody ever asks if
the Americans want us as members.")
In general any joke made at the ex-
pense of the United States was good
not only for a laugh but for applause.
The well of resentment was not sur-
prising but its depth was saddening.
Canada is suffering from many of
the same kinds of growing pains that
America is, but to theirs is added
the unease of knowing that much of
their growth is fertilized by Ameri-
can money and not their own.
Canada's standard of living is the
second highest in the world; its cities
are sprawling, just as ours are, in
unplanned and unbeautiful suburbs
while the centers of cities suffer the
common North American blight.
There, as here, voices are raised in
protest and anguish, but I had the
feeling that such voices are more
likely to be heard there than here.
Canadians have already built model
towns and discovered that it is pos-
sible to combine idiosyncrasy of taste
with a basically sound community
[)lan. It far from satisfies the archi-
tect's dream of "total architecture"
(and a good thing too) but it gives
heart to piaimers. Toronto has re-
captured an island in Lake Ontario
from honky-tonk, lorn down the
shacks ih;it scarred its shores, lc)ri)id-
den aut(jnioi)iles to chive on it, and
turned it into a pleasant place for
Torontonians to walk. It is only a
gesture, perhaps, a small solace for
a city that might have faced a beauti-
ful lake, and preferred to turn its
back on it long ago; but it is a ges-
ture that American cities can envy.
After the concert of music by Can-
adian composers, Philip Torno, the
treasurer of the conference and a suc-
cessful Canadian wine grower and
distributor, asked me, "How do you
think we're doing?"
For me to say, "I think you're do-
ing fine," would have been patroniz-
ing. To say I didn't think they were
doing fine would have been both un-
true and insulting. Mr. Torno was,
I think, puzzled when I said, "What
do you mean, 'How are we doing?'
Why 'we'? Why not, 'How are the
artists doing?' or, 'What do you think
of the music?' " But he meant, of
course, "How is Canada doing?" and
this, I'm sure, was the farthest thing
from the minds of the composers, of
the conductor of the symphony, and
of the musicians who performed.
Shortly before the conference took
place a debate had raged in the Tor-
onto Globe and Mail which made
most of the participants at the con-
ference furious, but which I thought
was a sign of vitality. In a series of
articles called "Cult or Culture," a
reporter had attacked the spending
of public money on art without any
public control of how it is spent; he
had complained about the widening
gap between artist and public, and
the "nihilism" and "obscurity" of art
today. Speakers at the conference
spluttered about it, laughed at it, de-
rided it. Dr. Northrop Frye, the
Principal of Victoria College in Tor-
onto University, referred to it in a
speech as "a tedious and foolish
harangue," and dismissed it very
neatly by saying: "There is, of
course, no 'or' about it; culture has
always been a cult, in the sense of
being a group of specialized and ex-
acting disciplines. It is natural that
some people should resent this, just
as it is natural that some people
should resent the fact that years of
hard work in education are necessary
to the best life."
But the harangue, though not in-
tended to be, was a tribute to the
vitality not the decadence of the arts
in Canada. You can't make a
fight about a dead issue. The arts
in C>anada may be self-conscious, l)ui
nobody can say they are not lively.
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MAGA
ZINE
AMERICA
UNDER PRESSURE
A political commentary by Adlai E. Stevenson
Is our society losing its "immense powers
of adaptation' because the traditional pressures
for change and growth have stopped working?
TH E quality of the electorate, the news it
will listen to, the leads it will follow, the
inconveniences and difficulties it is prepared to
face— these are the measure of effective democ-
racy. Even within our system of checks and bal-
ances, vigorous and effective government is not
impossible. Our republican institutions are now
among the oldest continuous political institu-
tions in the world. They could not have survived
from a rural, decentralized community to the
modern world of cities and industrial concentra-
tions without immense powers of adaptation.
These have made it possible for great Presidents
to reshape popular thinking and introduce eras
of great reform. They have done this by de-
veloping a close dialogue Avith a responsive pub-
lic opinion and thus imposing political vision
and direction on the chaos of separate interests
and rival lobbies which make up— inevitably— so
much of Congressional politics.
This is as it should be. For interests deserve
representation, and the compromises of counter-
vailing power make for healthier social condi-
tions than stifling unity imposed from above by
single party rule. But the national purpose is
more than a sum of these compromises— just as
the citizen is more than a member of his own
lobby. He is neighbor, parent, worshiper, and
patriot as well. The great social purposes of a
community— its security, the quality of its life
and education, the beauty of its public monu-
ments, its images of greatness, its communion
with past and future— all these must be expressed
in the political dialogue— and cannot be if the
citizens themselves succumb to what I regard as,
historically, the three great distempers of the
public mind— reaction, complacency, and medi-
ocrity.
Take first the issue of reaction. America is not
in temperament essentially conservative. We
have no feudal past such as anchors so many
communities in unworkable institutions and out-
dated ideas. We were born in the morning of
popular government and national liberation and
some of that fresh light still falls on our laces.
\Vc turn most naturally to the future. We live
in hope, not fear. All this is true. But it also is
true that the challenge presented by Soviet power
is a new challenge. It is that of an apparently
implacable power pressing in on us from a
steadily widening foreign base and threatening,
as we see it, all that is most precious in our way
of life. This is new to us.
It is not, however, new to others. Between
22 AMERICA UNDER PRESSURE
the seventeenth and the early twentieth century;
this was precisely the type of pressure that West-
ern nationalism, mercantilism, colonialism, and
capitalism exercised on Asia, Africa, and in a
rather different form on Latin America. West-
erners in those days appeared— to Turks or Arabs
or Indians or Chinese— to have the characteristics
we see in Communists today. They seemed im-
placable men convinced of their own mission
and superiority. Their power was growing. Their
influence was spreading— and with their influence
went the destruction of ancient and cherished
beauties, institutions, and beliefs.
RUNNING AWAY
BACKWARD
UNDER this disturbing pressure— which
we in the West are only now beginning to
a]:)preciate, from experiencing it ourselves— peo-
ples and societies reacted in opposite ways. In
India, for example, a long line of philosophers
and reformers— from Sir Ram Mohan Roy in the
1820s to Pandit Nehru in our own day— met the
Western encroachment with intelligence, bal-
ance, and a readiness to judge their own tradi-
tions constructively in the light of its challenge.
On these foundations they built a philosophy
and then a movement which were able to reverse
British pressure, re-create Indian society, and
achieve independence in modern terms. But dur-
ing the same period, other Indian groups took
an opposite line. Leaders hankering for old
glories and unchanged feudal society brought
about the disasters of the Mutiny. Extreme
Hindu groups took to terrorism and murder in
the name of the traditional gods. On the mor-
row of independence, such a terrorist killed
Gandhi, the father of the nation. From such
sterile reaction, no gain came— no nation build-
ing, no emancipation, nothing but counter-
violence and hate. In short, the way of reaction
proved to be the way of destruction.
Now let us look at another instance— this time
between nations, not within the same com-
munity. When in the nineteenth century, West-
ern pressure in the Far East became irresistible,
the Manchu leaders of China refused to recog-
nize the fact. The regime of the Empress Dow-
ager took refuge in an ever deeper conservatism.
The modernization of any part of the state was
virtually made impossible by the stagnant, back-
ward-looking court. Then rule by eunuchs and
assassination— typical of all China's worst periods
—continued while the Western powers filched
away ports, treaties, territories, customs, conces-
sions, spheres of interest, and turned the proud
empire into the sick man of Asia— everyone's
butt and everyone's prey.
During the same years, the leaders of Japan
looked at Western civilization squarely and in
an intense revolutionary effort took over from it
what was necessary to keep it out. As a result,
while China still drifted on, as storm-tossed and
rudderless as a junk in a typhoon, Japan rose to
modern power in a generation. Once again, the
way of sterile reaction brought disaster, while
change and adaptation ensured the power to
survive.
Or let us take a more recent instance— the re-
sponse to Communist pressure given by Hitler's
Germany. Allegedly to keep the Communists
out. Hitler adopted all communism's most reac-
tionary techniques— the single party, the single
ideology, tyranny, total censorship, total police
power, government by torture and murder. And
the result? After a rjiinous war, half Europe fell
under Communist control— a warning against
those self-styled defenders of freedom against
communism who care nothing about killing free-
dom in the process of conducting their "defense."
These are not remote historical analogies.
They are relevant to our experience here and
now. The central traditions of our country are
liberal, generous, and forward-looking. But, in
times of stress our history has continued to throw
up groups of irreconcilable reactionaries whose
solution to the problems of the age lies in
violence, hysteria, distrust, and £ear-mongering.
The Know-Nothings, the Ku-Klux Klan, the Mc-
Carthyites, the White Segregationists— all these
are recurrent manifestations of the spirit of
irrational reaction. I do not know whether our
new tensions are breeding— in the John Birch
Society— yet another outburst of this destructive
and defeatist spirit. But I do know that history
gives us only one verdict on the outcome of
looking in times of crisis to a fearful and back-
ward conservatism. The outcome is quite simply
defeat. Men do not overcome their crises by
running away from them backward. No cosy
retreats from a challenging future can be looked
Adlai E. Stevenson was one of America's best
known citizens throughout the world even before
his appointment by President Kennedy to be U. S.
Representative to the United Nations. In recent
months he has had to speak for this country in
some of the most complex and dangerous situations
of the Cold War. Former Governor of Illinois and
twice the Presidential candidate of the Democratic
party, he is also the author of "The New America"
"IV hat I Think" and other books.
I
23
for in an outgrown past. Times of challenge are
limes for new frontiers, not last ditches.
Yet reaction is not our chief danger. The
greater risk in our present crisis is not that
public opinion will react with a blind and back-
ward-looking conservatism, but that it may not
react at all. Complacency, not frenzied John
Birchery, may be our chief weakness, and it is
easy to imderstand why this is so. We are the
wealthiest society in depth that the world has
ever seen. More people enjoy more comfort than
at any previous time. Yet there is no guarantee
that whole communities are any more immune
than families or classes from the typical tempta-
tions of affluence. Inertia, indifference, exaltation
of the pleasure principle, a falling away in
curiosity and human sympathy^all these afflict
so-called "Caf^ Society." They can afflict general
society as well.
Three-quarters of mankind still live in a
poverty so grinding, in such pitiful conditions of
health and livelihood, that the framework of
their brief lives is not very distant from Hobbes'
definition: "nasty, brutish, and short." But when
Hobbes wrote, the rich minority contrived to
overlook the spectacle. In France, the Court
played at shepherds and shepherdesses while the
peasants ate grass. Today we in America are the
rich minority of world society. Are we any less
prone than they to while away our most precious
gift of time in pursuit of distractions fully as
trivial as those of Le Trianon or Le Hameau?
Indeed, we have in television an instrument of
mass entertainment that does not even demand
that we dress up as shepherds ourselves. We can
watch other people doing it for us and sink to
an even greater passivity of mind and spirit. A
nation of viewers, gazing at what FCC Chairman
Newton Minow calls the "wasteland" of the tele-
vision screen, is not likely to widen its sympathies
or feel its instincts of justice and compassion
deeply stirred. Yet no wealthy group in the
modern age has finally resisted the inroads of
popular misery and revolt while clinging to all
the trivia of a self-indulgent existence. History
is neither made nor changed by the complacent
and the comfortable. On the contrary, it is made
against them and at their expense.
This complacency in our society has its bear-
ing on a third weakness in popular opinion to-
day—the risk of mediocrity. Our tradition was
founded and constantly renewed by great leaders
responding to a popular demand for great ac-
tion. AVashington and Jefferson guided and
canalized the general revolt against colonial rule.
Lincoln directed the energies of a mighty nation
Coming this fall in Harper's
THE COLLEGE SCENE
A Special Supplement on
The New Generation
of Undergraduates and Teachers
The quality of their education . . .
The reality of their politics . . .
The mood of their campus Hfe . . .
Articles by McGeorge Bundy, Philip Rieff,
David Boroff, Nathan Glazer, Reuel Wil-
son, Christopher Jencks, and others
at war with itself over the great principles of
human freedom. Theodore Roosevelt and Wood-
row Wilson caught the reforming tide set flowing
by popular disgust at the raw money-grubbing
capitalism of our "Robber Baron" epoch. Frank-
lin Roosevelt mobilized popular despair over the
Depression behind his New Deal, and Harry
Truman caught up the expectations and hopes
of the immediate postwar years into the superb
strategy of the Marshall Plan. In every case a
ferment among the people enabled leaders of
stature to direct that ferment into new, imagi-
native, and epoch-making acts of policy.
Against this background, our present predica-
ment is deeply disturbing. The need for great
acts of statesmanship is more urgent than ever
before. Wherever we look there confronts us a
stark crisis, demanding greatness for its resolu-
tion. And most of them have nothing directly to
do with communism. They would exist in any
case. All that communism does is, by its extra
pressure, to make their resolution more urgent.
In our domestic economy, we have not been
able to reconcile the need for economic growth
with the desire for price stability. While West-
ern Europe has achieved rates of growth double
and treble ours, we have lagged behind with a
2 per cent rate that does not fully absorb our
rising population. This in turn aggravates the
problem of our growing level of built-in unem-
ployment. Bold new measures of replacing and
retraining, new restraints on wage increases and
speculation, more competition for greater effi-
ciency are clearly needed to reverse these trends.
We add to our population a city the size of
Philadelphia every year. These millions will
s^vell the millions already crowding into our vast
24 AMERICA UNDER PRESSURE
*^
urban concentrations, there to live with all the
discomforts of congestion, commuting, and de-
clining civic services, caught between an urban
life without community and a nonurban life
without access to natural life and beauty. Only
heroic measures of urban renewal, metropolitan
planning, and nation-wide conservation can save
our national life from foundering in a series of
shapeless, soulless urban sprawls.
The challenge abroad is if anything tougher.
We have used up the momentum the Marshall
Plan gave to bolder Western association. The
trade areas we call the Six and the Seven are still
divided in Europe. The exchange reserves of
the non-Commtmist countries are inadequate to
cover their rising trade. Their capital assistance
to developing areas, though considerable, has
been undirected and unco-ordinated— and often
w\asted. Their trad^ policies, particularly in re-
gard to slumping commodity prices, have often
undone the work their aid was supposed to ac-
complish.
All these facts point toward a unified North
Atlantic economy and community, which by
freer competition and expanding internal trade
would pile up capital for use in the developing
world, and by its prosperity attract the trade of
other nations. Such a community would also be
politically cohesive enough to roll back Soviet
pressure in Europe, compete with it successfully
in the developing world, and provide within the
wider framework of the United Nations a first
concrete example of the kind of confederal as-
sociation under law which the nations of the
world must ultimately achieve if they are to
avoid the final horrors of atomic war.
ATTUNED TO GREATNESS
THESE are not remote needs. They are
immediate necessities. But how are we to
rally public opinion for such great tasks? Our
complacency threatens to breed mediocrity of
aim— "You never had it so good"; mediocrity
of response— "I'm all right. Jack"; mediocrity of
vision— our monument, in the poet's phrase, "a
thousand lost golf balls." In the past, social dis-
content was the fuel of the engine of progress.
Today, we have never needed creative change
more urgently. Yet we were never so lacking in
divine discontent.
Of course, we must not restore genuine misery
in order to restore general momentum. We must
somehow find, in alert, educated, respoiisilile
public response, an ahcrnaiive lo the old dis-
contented pressures for change. In every s(nil,
I believe, there lies not only the desire to be
left in peace but also the desire to feel part of a
great adventure. It was the glory of Athens-
prototype of all free societies— that by the spon-
taneous will of the citizens, it could outface the
might of Persia and outthink the leaden dis-
cipline of the Spartans. We carry in our minds
echoes of Pericles' great Funeral Oration:
"We admit anyone to our city and do not
expel foreigners for fear that they should see too
much, because in war we trust to our bravery
and daring rather than stratagems and prepara-
tions: Our enemies prepare for war by a labori-
ous training from boyhood; we live at our ease,
but are no less confident in facing danger. . . .
We love the arts, but without lavish display, and
the things of the mind but without becoming
soft."
So long as this temper prevailed, Athens
proved invulnerabla. Its voice remained the
voice of confidence, of excellence, of a com-
munity attuned to greatness, drawing its reform-
ing energies not from the miseries of past and
present, but from a high vision of the future.
During its greatest days, it proved once and for
all that free societies can show this vitality, that
free societies can be the history-making forces in
the world.
But today our society is far indeed from a
Periclean spontaneity and vitality. Reading fur-
ther in Thucydides, I found this disturbing com-
parison of ^Athenians with Spartans:
"They-^tlie Athenians— are always thinking of
new schen/es and are quick to make their plans
and to carry them out. You— Sparta— are content
with what you have and are reluctant to do even
what is necessary. They are bold, adventurous,
sanguine; you are cautious and trust neither your
power nor your judgment."
Today, who is Sparta, who is Athens? Who
has the initiative? Who is making the schemes?
Who is bold and adventurous? Who is cautious
and "reluctant to do even what is necessary"?
Have free men become the conservatives and the
Communists the adventurers and innovators?
Can there be more to Khrushchev's confidence
that he will "bury us" than brash self-assertion?
Has he captured a sense of history that we in the
West have lost?
I hope I know the answer to these questions.
I hope that I can say. that while free society may
have slumbered for a little and rested and drawn
breaili, it is ready again for great purposes and
greai tasks, and tliat its creative imagination,
rearousetl and refreshed, is e(|ua! to all the crisis
and cliallenge of our perilous days.
Harper's Magazine, August 1961
ALLAN TEMKO
HOW NOT
TO BUILD A
BALL PARK
Ever try to play baseball in a wind scoop?
That's what the San Francisco Giants are doing.
There are lessons (not all of them architecttiral,
by any means) in Candlestick Park for other
cities that are now on a ball-park-building spree.
SUMMER is upon the pleasant land, and
this fun-loving nation once more is being
taken— out at the ball park. The taking is being
done by genial club owners, politicians, contrac-
tors, financiers, lawyers, and sports writers— who
in this age of panem et circenses have convinced
several cities that they dearly need not only
major-league baseball, but new stadiums to go
Avith it. Although insufficient money is available
nowadays for housing, schools, hospitals, and
even modest neighborhood playgrounds, there
seems to be no shortage of funds for the national
pastime, which was described by F. Scott Fitz-
gerald as "a boy's game with no more possibili-
ties in it than a boy could master, a game
bounded by walls which kept out novelty or
danger, change or adventure."
More than a boy's pocket money is required,
however, to stage big-tiine baseball. In New York
for example, $19 million has been appropriated
—and such sums have a way of growing— tor the
construction of a 55,000-seat arena on public
parkland in Flushing Meadows. Los Angeles,
another metropolis with no lack of slums, is
spending $18 million for the Dodgers' stadium in
Chavez Ravine, a site once designated for low-
cost public housing. Washington, Houston, and
other cities also aie erecting expensive homes
for their teams; and one can hope that in the
planning stage, they have considered the experi-
ence of balmy San Francisco, which can serve as
a model of kindly hospitality to commerical
baseball.
This is the Giants' fourth season in San Fran-
cisco and their second at Candlestick Park, the
controversial stadium beside the Bay which-at a
cost of more than $15 million— was rushed to com-
pletion by the city when the team was induced to
abandon New York in 1958. (At the same time,
it will be remembered, the Dodgers moved from
Brooklyn to Los Angeles.) The first two years in
San Francisco the Giants played at old Seals
Stadium, near the downtown breweries; and it
was there that they nearly won the pennant in
1959. When Candlestick Park opened the follow-
ing spring, therefore, enthusiastic fans had reason
to hope that the 45,000-seat structure would be
the scene of the next World Series.
Instead— in a setting worthy of a Greek amphi-
theatre—the Giants enacted a classical drama of
the diamond, starting the 1960 season as heroes,
and finishing (if the ambiguous term will be par-
doned in Brooklyn and L.A.) as bums.
The team's ignoble fate aroused not only jiity
in the bosoms of nearly 1,800,000 paying cus-
tomers (more than the pennant-winning Yankees
drew the same season in New York), but, appar-
ently, terror in the mind of owner Horace Stone-
ham, who promptly conducted purification rites.
A devout new manager, Alvin Dark, was put in
charge of what had been a notably light-hearted
group of ball players. The insouciant outfielder
Willie Kirkland was bartered to Cleveland. So
was the prideful pitcher Johnny Antonelli.
Harvey Kuenn, a worthy batsman, was acquired
in exchange. And now, at midsummer, the
Giants, led by the incomparable Willie Mays,
who hit four home runs in a single game on
April 30, once more hope to conquer.
But if the team's fault lies not in its stars, it
may reside in the seemingly blameless stadium.
For if Candlestick Park, when first sighted from
the Bayshore freeway on the southern limits of
the city, appears radiantly innocent in the sun-
light, it is far from a simple monument to healthy
sport. Like professional baseball itself, however,
the great, semicircidar structure of exposed con-
crete does make a cheerful show of outward vigor.
The top of the grandstand, particularly, is very
forceful and clear. Its rounded lid (which is a
wind-baffle only, rather than a true roof for the
upper tier) is mounted on spectacular sculptural
elements, shaped like inverted Y's, Avhich bend
26
HOW NOT TO BUILD A BALL PARK
with the shell and then fork downward into the
structure below. For this feature alone architect
John Bolles and engineers Chin and Hensolt of
San Francisco deserve high commendation. It
places Candlestick in a category well above the
run of major-league parks, which are probably
the worst-designed large stadiums in the world.
Yet on closer view Candlestick rapidly loses
glory. The tundra of parking lots, which can
accommodate eight thousand cars and three hun-
dred buses, contributes to this melancholy effect,
for no effort was made to relieve the expanse of
blacktop with greenery. At the crest of the steep
approach (nicknamed "Cardiac Hill") the un-
inviting main entrance bears some resemblance
to a prison gate; and in the structure which lifts
heavily behind it, what had appeared gleaming,
strong, and decisive at a distance now seems mud-
dled, unfinished, and somehow cheap.
The raw, unpainted concrete, for example,
which would have been perfectly acceptable if
carefully surfaced, was left slovenly, as if the
workmen had hurried from the job. The ramps
leading to the upper deck seem brutally flung
about at hazard. In fact, on the exterior, only
the tall, steel floodlight pylons— the most elegant
in the country, perhaps— fulfill Candlestick's first
promise.
A GOOD DEAL ?
TH E story of the financing and building of
the stadium, which would have been com-
plex under any circumstances, has been further
complicated by lawsuits, some of which remain
unsettled. A Grand Jury investigation of Candle-
stick in 1958 came to the conclusion: "The city
did not get a good deal." (Two jurors dissented,
however, and commended the city on "a very
efficient and excellent job.") The Grand Jury
report led to an angry exchange between Mayor
George Christopher and the foreman, Henry
North, which culminated in a slander suit against
the Mayor, its withdrawal after a public reconcil-
iation, and a mutual pledge to "work toward a
greater-than-ever San Francisco."
The Grand Jury's findings related chiefly to
land acquisition, financing, and costs.
By failing to use its power of eminent domain
at the time when the Candlestick Point site was
under consideration in 1956, the Jury said, the
city allowed prices to rise and therefore paid
from $650,000 to a million dollars over a fair
market value for the land. The greater part of
the 77 acres purchased was a property of 41 acres
owned by Charles L. Harney, some of it under
water. Mr. Harney, the contractor for the job,
received $2.7 million from the city for the land
—approximately $66,000 per acre, though it had
been assessed in 1956 for only $26,730 per acre.
(Some of this Mr. Harney had purchased in 1953
for about $2,100 per acre.)
As to costs, the Grand Jury pointed out that
the voters had authorized $5 million for the land
and stadium; but by 1958, estimated costs "may
exceed $15 million." To arrange for additional
financing, a nonprofit corporation, Stadium, Inc.,
was formed in 1957, with Mr. Harney and two of
his employees as officers and directors.
"It was illogical," said the Grand Jury, "for
Stadium, Inc., with its directorate of Harney
men, to act for the City and County of San
Francisco, and, at the same time, have Harney,
the contractor, selling land to the city and con-
structing a stadium, so on February 28, 1958, it
was decided to substitute other officials, and
three prominent arfd influential men [Allan K.
Browne, W. P. Fuller Brawner, and Frederic P.
Whitman] were asked to serve as directors. . . .
The nonprofit corporation is in a very literal
sense the alter ego of the city."
Although the Grand Jury said it believed the
nonprofit corporation may be a useful financial
device, it said that, in this case, if city bonds
had been issued instead of those of the corpora-
tion, "a very considerable saving of interest would
have resulted." The Grand Jury explicitly de-
nied "inferring that we found anything dishonest
about this deal," but it stated:
"The end result, therefore, of the establishment
of this nonprofit corporation is that the city
could avoid securing the voters' approval of an
additional expenditure of approximately ten mil-
lion, could by-pass the Charter provision with
regard to bidding, and could and did channel
this vast project without competitive bidding, to
the contractor of their choice. . . .
"It is our conviction that where so much addi-
tional money is involved, a few city officials
should not accept responsibility for the invest-
ment of millions unauthorized by the voters.
Allan Temko, who grew up in New York,
lived in France for a while after the war and wrote
"Nolre-Dame of Paris: The Biography of a Cathe-
dral.'' Now living in Berkeley, he is West Coast
associate editor of "Architectural Forum" and
writes for the San Francisco "Chronicle" and many
magazines. II is last article in "Harper s" ("San
Francisco Rebuilds Again") won the first prize in
the American Institute of Architects Architectural
Journalism Competition this spring.
despite their conviction that major-league base-
ball would be a fine thing for San Francisco."
Precisely what motives animated the respon-
sible officials during this period— other than
frantic haste to bring a major-league ball club
to a city which does not possess a decent theatre
—will probably never be known. But Supervisor
James Leo Halley proposed that the grateful
municipality name the ball park Harney Stadium.
This struck a note which vibrated among the
citizenry. Many San Franciscans suggested in-
stead that the name Candlestick (taken from the
harbor point) be changed to "Candlestink." This
is because of the aroma of the nearby tidal flats
which is often picked up by the breeze. On
many days, of course, the breeze is a wind power-
ful enough to play havoc with hitting and fielding,
and the visitor feels its force soon after he enters
the stands.
FAIR IS FOUL
AND FOUL IS FAIR
YE T the visitor forgets the wind momen-
tarily and is oblivious to most of the
stadium's tawdry details (such as the poorly
joined railing on which I scored my hand upon
first entering), as soon as the great sweep of space
toward the Bay opens before his eyes.
Here the taxpayers get something like their
money's worth. Candlestick commands a mag-
nificent view of harbor, sky, and distant hills.
Across a broad cove of the Bay are the giant
cranes of the Hunters Point naval station, and,
often, standing out to sea is a destroyer or a high-
riding tanker. The water is alive with white sails,
and on game days some fans arrive by boat, a
very San Franciscan touch. The shoreline in the
foreground, between the stadium and the water's
edge, remains unsightly, to be sure, but it can
easily be cleared by some wise municipal govern-
ment of the future, and then Candlestick Point
can become the green, multipurpose recreational
groimds it might have been from the start.
So far so good. The remarkable spaciousness
of the stadium's interior is enhanced by an ex-
tremely open seating plan and generous aisles.
The pastel seats, which vary in hue according
to price, add charming color (although the con-
crete remains brutally raw); and the over-all lines
of the stands, which do not rise too steeply, are
handsome. A mezzanine hung from the upper
deck emphasizes the tremendous curve of the
structure and provides a superb horizontal line
which shows how distinguished the architecture
might have been.
Yet, as on the exterior, inspection again reveals
serious failings. Although engineering today
makes unobstructed space possible even in vast
buildings, the architect here relied on columns—
the bane of spectators unlucky enough to sit
behind them— to support the upper deck. These
round steel pillars are well set back in the lower
stand (granted, they do not interfere to the
same degree as the forest of columns in the
Giants' old Polo Grounds in New York), but the
architect concedes that they could have been
omitted at an additional cost of only $250,000.
The figure seems high. Probably a different struc-
tural concept could have been column-free at lit-
tle or no extra cost, if only because these
columns are of solid steel and quite expensive.
There are also vexing blind spots in the
column-free upper stands, however, and they re-
veal how complex is the job of designing a large
baseball stadium. On jxiper it must have seemed
a good idea to bring the stands rather closer than
is usual to the playing field. But the result has
28
HOW NOT TO BUILD A BALL PARK
been that, from broad areas of the upper deck,
sharply pulled balls are lost from sight, and low-
traveling home runs close to the foul line cannot
be seen clearing the fence except on the side of
the field. . . . That is, // drives which normally
would go out of the park even reach the fence in
the face of the wind.
"temple of the winds"
Ho M E runs— by both the Giants and their
opponents last year in Candlestick— were
remarkably scarce. The barriers are being brought
closer to the plate this year for precisely that
reason, and a 45-foot-high backdrop has been
installed in center field— at a cost of $45,000—
in order to improve visibility for the hitters.
But outfielders will probably continue to leap
forward for balls which first seem to be flying
far over their heads. For perhaps the most ap-
propriate name yet offered for Candlestick is
"Temple of the Winds." The air currents,
sweeping off the hills and the harbor, move not
only with exceptional velocity, but in an unpre-
dictable variety of directions.
Sometimes one flag in the outfield will be
ripj)ling toward the Bay, or hanging limp, while
another is stiffly directed toward right field. In
this corner of the stands the rounded shield of
the upper deck apparently acts not as a baffle but
as a wind-scoop, funneling great blasts of air
around the diamond until they come whirling
out over left field again. In their artless, vocifer-
ous way the players have complained about these
gusts which, they claim, affect even pitched balls.
At night— and of course a good half of the
games are now nocturnal— the wind subsides, but
the fog rolls in from the Bay. Candlestick is
probably the only major-league park where the
umpires delayed a game for an hour, although
no rain was falling, because a solid bank of fog,
worthy of the Labrador shelf, floated into the
stadium and stayed there one night last summer.
And again like a Labrador fog, this one was cold.
Although nearly half of Candlestick's seats are
equipped for radiant heating (another unique
feature of the stadium), the system thus far has
proven remarkably ineffective, and prudent spec-
tators dress for night games as if they were camp-
ing out in a Sierra winter.
Such are Candlestick's major failings. Among
its minor shortcomings it is enough to mention
that the screen bchirid home plate is crude; the
scoreboard resembles, atid in hut is, a vulgar
advertising sign; and the grass is far from being a
lush greensward.
How many of these faults could have been
avoided? Surely the wind might have been con-
trolled in so large a structure, since from
the earliest stages of the project the severity of the
wind problem should have been obvious. When
work had scarcely begun, ia construction superin-
tendent pointed out to a Chronicle reporter that
an eight-degree change in alignment might have
allowed the upper grandstand to shut off the wind
coming into right field. But, he added, "there
ain't gonna be nothin' to stop it. And man, does
she blow!"
Only now has the city put up |54,925— another
of the high figures which have a way of creeping
into the history of Candlestick— for meteorologi-
cal tests which may not even be final. Possibly
the only way to correct the wind condition will
be, as has been suggested, to cover the entire
structure with a geodesic dome or some other
kind of roof. R. Buckminster Fuller, inventor
of the geodesic dome, estimates the cost of such
a translucent covering at .$3.5 million.
As the baseball season waxes, so do the law
suits, and soon, vinless there is an out-of-court
settlement, San Franciscans may be treated to a
gamy trial. On the basis of a ten-page list of
sixty-one disputed items drawn up by Mr. Bolles,
Stadium, Inc. is asking for a $2,522,400 indemnity
from Mr. Harney for alleged failure to fulfill
his contract. Mr. Harney is charged not only
with failure to complete the stadium on time,
but also with inadequate filling, grading, and
paving of the parking area; installation of de-
fective seats, electrical outlets, and plumbing
fixtures; and failure to provide proper heating
and waterproofing systems.
But this is only a cross-complaint against a
larger claim which Harney himself filed last
August against the city. The affluent contractor
charged that an undue number of changes were
made in the original design for which he said the
city owed him an additional $2,734,480.
The Giants for their part, although the value
of the club's stock has soared since it moved to
San Francisco, unsuccessfully tried to claim a re-
fund of $117,487 which they said the city over-
charged them for taxes in 1960.
But the Giants in turn are now being sued by
a San Francisco lawyer, Mel Belli, who asserts
that the failure of the heating system represents
"a breach of contract" to him as a ticket holder,
and has caused "extreme discomfort" and thereby
endangered "the health and well-being of the
[plaintiff and his guests."
Such, such, are the joys of the national pastime
in the most easygoing of American cities.
Harper's Magazine, Augusl 1961
II
-n
MURRAY TEIGH BLOOM
YOUR UNKNOWN HEIRS
how patronage politicians may take
a big bite out of your estate
A report on "some of the most widespread,
most profitable, and least known evils
in our courts" . . . and why the legal profession
hesitates about cleaning them up.
IN MOST states of this Union, a man or
woman who dies leaving an estate where chU-
(hen inherit may rest uneasy for one reason at
least: a big piece of it may go— not to his heirs—
but to officers appointed by the probate and sur-
rogate courts. Even if the children (or an "incom-
petent") are involved only indirectly, the estate
may have to pay this cut.
This legal system provides political patronage
for thousands of the courts' "special guardians"
or "appraisers." Unobserved by the public, they
are the last earthly mediators between the solvent
dead and their heirs. Every year overtolerant
judges, archaic laws, and needy political machines
combine to take millions silently out of small and
large estates. These persistent pluckings are some
of the most widespread, most profitable, and least
known evils in our courts.
"Every American family will at some time
come in contact with the probate courts," says
Professor William J. Pierce, director of the Legis-
lative Research Center at the University of Mich-
igan Law School. "Yet these courts and their
operations are least understood by the American
public and they have been treated as a stepchild
by the legal profession generally. As a result
many instances of corrupt practices have arisen."
Depending on the state, these courts are called
probate, surrogate, orphans, or chancery courts;
in some states, superior or county-court judges do
the work of probating estates, a procedure which
is generally carried out with integrity. The Estate
Recording Company of San Diego estimates that
every year about 150,000 estates of |1 0,000 and
over are filed for probate, with a total value of
$11 billion. If the bite on these estates averaged
one per cent, it would amount to fllO million.
The two commonest exactions are fees for spe-
cial guardians (or guardians ad litem) and state-
inheritance-tax appraisers. But there could be,
as we shall see later, much simpler and less ex-
pensive ways of accomplishing these ends.
Understandably, the cost is greatest in the
richer and more populous states such as New
York, California, Texas, Ohio, Illinois, and New
Jersey; but rural communities in such states as
Connecticut and Louisiana are not immune. To
see how expensive these wholly legal devices may
be, let us look at some of the facts.
Manhattan's surrogate court is unquestionably
the richest in the world. The two surrogates
handle between $500 million and |700 million in
estates every year. When Fiorello La Guardia
was New York's brilliant reform mayor, he de-
liberately starved Tammany Hall of all patron-
age. Yet the Tammany clubhouse lawyers were
able to get along very well on the enormous
patronage of the surrogates. La Guardia scath-
ingly called the surrogates court, "the most ex-
pensive undertaking establishment in the world."
Of course, not all such appointments are based
on political favoritism. Sometimes special guard-
ians—and many of them are conscientious people
—are necessary to protect the interests of children
and incompetents mentioned in wills. In some
complicated cases, the service may require con-
siderable time and experience.
30
YOUR UNKNOWN HEIRS
When millionaire sportsman William Wood-
ward, Jr. was killed accidentally in 1955 he left
about $10 million equally divided between his
wife and two sons. His will was skillfully drawn
by some of the most expensive legal talent in
New York, but under New York law the surro-
gates had to appoint special guardians to make
certain that the boys' interests would be pro-
tected. Surrogate William T. Collins appointed
Harold H. Corbin, a New York criminal lawyer
with good connections. Mr. Corbin's first task
related to the validity of the will. For this he
asked a fee of |2,500; it was granted by the sur-
rogate and paid by the Woodward estate. But
this was only the beginning.
In 1957, the surrogate again appointed Corbin
special guardian for the well-protected Wood-
ward boys. And it appointed another lawyer,
Edward V. Loughlin, a former leader of Tam-
many Hall, as special guardian for the young
distant cousins who might inherit under certain
remote circumstances. Corbin and Loughlin
asked the surrogate for fees of $47,500 each. The
surrogate cut them, slightly, to $45,000. So on
the first round of special guardianships, the
Woodward estate was out $92,500.
Sometime in 1961 there will be a final account-
ing on the estate and again two special guardians
will have to be appointed. A lawyer familiar
with the estate tells me that the final bite will
probably be substantial. But, according to the
folklore of the surrogate courts, it would be far
from a record-breaking case.
The special guardians in the Woodward case
filed affidavits showing they had put in many
hours of work. But how much work is done by
some others for their great fees? Some bank trust
officers I talked to estimated that in similar cases
if a special guardian had to put in a full week
protecting the interests of the youngsters it was
a lot.
"Most special guardians try hard to make it
appear they're earning their large fees," the late
Professor Thomas Atkinson, an authority on pro-
bate law, told me.
An experienced bank-trust officer added: "The
special guardian's fee seldom has any relation
Murray Teigh Bloom has written several hun-
dred magazine articles, a hook about counterfeiters
("Money of Their Own" ) , and television plays. He
is a founder and past president of the Society of
Magazine Writers. His last article in "Harper's" was
"Is It Judge Crater's Body?" which was published
in November 1959.
to the value of the services rendered. In one case,
a special guardian— a former city official— came in
one Friday at noon. He said, 'Let's see these
four securities the estate has. If you have these
I assume you have all the rest and besides I want
to make the first race at Jamaica.' At the most
he was here twenty minutes and he asked for and
got a special guardian's fee of $6,000."
Even much smaller estates are not immune.
When a good friend of mine died suddenly of a
heart attack two years ago, his widow discovered
that the county surrogate had appointed a special
guardian to protect the interests of her two
teen-age sons. The guardian, a minor political
figure, visited one Saturday afternoon and asked
her to call in her sons.
"Boys," he said, "I know you want to be play-
ing outside, so I won't waste your time. Tell
me: when your father made out his will in De-
cember 1956, was he sane?"
"Of course, he was," the older boy burst out,
"What's the matter with you, anyway?"
The special guardian said: "Don't get excited,
boys. That's all I have to know."
He later phoned the two witnesses to the will,
then filed a brief report, and put in a claim for a
special guardian's fee of $380. He got it. He
was paid out of the estate which totaled less
than $25,000. As far as I can figure it, the lawyer
put in two hours on his simple, routine task, at
$190 per hour.
MANHATTAN IS REASONABLE
CLEARLY it is smart for lawyers to be
friendly with the local surrogates, but
friendship is not enough. In 1952, Bert Stand,
secretary of Tammany Hall, told the New York
State Crime Commission, then probing the ties
between the courts and politicians, how the sys-
tem worked. Each Tammany district leader, he
said, "would submit to the county organization a
list of his lawyers . . . and we, in turn, would
make up a list proportionately as best we knew
how and submit it to the judges . . . that might
have some patronage to give out."
Stand could only recall one instance in which
a judge refused the list and returned it to Tam-
many. According to the Canons of Judicial Ethics
of the American Bar Association, this rare judge
did the right thing. When a judge appoints per-
sons to aid him in the administration of justice,
says Canon 12, "he should not permit his ap-
pointments to be controlled by others than him-
self. He should also avoid nepotism and undue
favoritism in his appointments."
BY MURRAY TEIGH BLOOM
31
A great lavoiite of Manhaiian's surrogates is
Edward V. Loughlin, mentionetl above in the
Woodward case. In the first few months of 1960
Mr. Loughlin was appointed special guardian in
three large estates valued at .$21 million. Until
recently all special guardianshij^s in Manhattan
had to be listed every Monday in the Nexo York
Law Journal. But in March 1960 a bill was
quietly passed by the New York State Legislature
that ended this sixty-four-year-old requirement.
Now investigators will find it much more difficult
to find out which political fa\'orites get heavy
jjatronagc.
When I mentioned the high sj^ecial-guardian
fees awarded in Manhattan, Surrogate Joseph A.
Cox said: "You think they're high here? Why,
we're reasonable in Manhattan. In other bor-
oughs they're outrageous and upstate fees are
very high, too." Several trust-company officers
confirmed this. "Just don't die in Brooklyn or
in Nassau or Suffolk Counties and leave money
to children under twenty-one," one of them said.
"Those special guardians out there will rip
through your estate like a small tornado."
Why don't trust companies and executors pro-
test the exactions of grasping special guardians?
"How can we?" one of them asked me. "We have
to deal with surrogates, day in, day out. If we
antagonize them by protesting the size of these
fees, some surrogate will find lots of ways of
showing displeasure. We're sitting ducks." He
shook his head. "Say one day you finally decide
to fight the system. So the special guardian takes
you aside and says, 'Look, buster, if you don't
pay my fee without a fuss I'll keep this estate tied
up with objections for the next ten years.' And
he could, too."
In Massachusetts, where many estates are
neatly nicked by both guardians and appraisers,
several lawyers said the situation was out of hand.
But not one would let me use his name or even
protest the outsize fees in court. A leading Bos-
ton attorney explained: "The judge would look
down his nose at me and say, 'What's wrong with
the fee?' and I'd be dead. I might just as well
get out of the law, because I'd be through here."
However, this April, W^alter I. Badger, Jr., presi-
dent of the Boston Bar Association, commented
in its Journal on "the unfortunate, if not down-
right unethical situations" developing in many
counties: "The public is being dej^rived of 'the
absolute confidence in the integrity and impar-
tiality' in the probate administration to which it
is entitled."
Before his death in 1960, I discussed special
guardians with Professor Thomas Atkinson of
New York University School of Law. "I used to
tell probate judges they ought to have a little sign
in their chambers: 'Is this special guardianship
necessary?' But obviously my suggestion hasn't
been heeded," he said. "Most of the special
guardians appointed today are unnecessary and
serve no useful function. But because there is
an enormous amount of patronage involved it
is going to be very hard to end this system. An
investigation is long overdue on this abuse."
Professor Atkinson suggested that our courts
study the Canadian system. There a full-time
public official acts as Official Guardian in behalf
of minors mentioned in wills. He gets fixed and
very nominal fees for his work.
IS IT BETTER TO DIE
IN CALIFORNIA ?
IN California, where the courts seldom find it
necessary to appoint fat-fee special guardians,
the preferred method is the inheritance-tax-ap-
praiser fee. The man named "appraiser" by the
State Controller, gets a percentage of the total
estate. The San Francisco Chronicle has called
this "the last vestige of the spoils system in
California."
How impressive the fees are can be judged
from a survey made by State Controller Alan
Cranston when he took office in 1959. Democrat
Cranston wanted to know just how much the
Republican-appointed appraisers he inherited
had been making at their jobs. He asked all state
appraisers to file earnings statements. All of them
work at state appraising part-time; their real
work is law, insurance, or real estate.
Herman A. Bischoff, a prominent San Diego
Republican, reported that his appraiser fees,
taken out of estates he valuated for state-inheri-
tance-tax purposes, came to 333,000 for the first
six months of 1959. For part-time work he made
more than the Governor, who works full-time
and gets S40,000 a year. In California only eleven
state executives draw $20,000 a year or more. In
Alameda County, Hugo P. Correll, another
prominent Republican, made |23,040 in his first
six months as part-time state appraiser.
When Cranston camjxiigned for the Control-
ler's job, according to the San Francisco Chroni-
cle, he said he was in favor of putting the ap-
praiser jobs under civil service. After he was
elected he found that this would cost too much.
And he proceeded to give some oi the jobs to
good Democrats such as Thomas E. Feeney, who
had been active in his camjxiign, and to A.
Brooks Berlin, the San Francisco campaign man-
32 YOUR UNKNOWN HEIRS
ager for Governor Brown. Of the 141 state
appraisers, 112 are Democrats and 29 Republi-
cans. However, Cranston has reorganized the
system so that it is unlikely that an appraiser can
make more than $20,000 a year.
What does the appraiser do?
"In most cases," an experienced California
judge told me, "it's just a matter of sitting down
to check the value of the estate's stocks and
bonds in the Wall Street Journal. Some of
them don't even do that but simply approve the
appraisals already made by the bank or trust
company handling the estate. But if they have a
real problem, they're allowed to bring in pro-
fessional appraisers on a per-diem basis. To
make things sweeter, appraisers can also get a
nice little allowance for their 'clerical' help. All
this, of course, comes out of the estates being
'appraised.' The whole appraisal business makes
no sense here."
As if the appraiser exactions weren't enough,
during the 1950s several clerks of the San Fran-
cisco probate court thought up another way of
taking even more out of estates. Under Cali-
fornia probate law, "anyone interested in the
estate" could request the appointment of two
extra appraisers, each to receive the regular fee.
In 1958 a state legislative committee investiga-
tion found that:
About fifty court attaches or judges' friends
took part in this extra-appraisal system. They
had little or no competence in appraising and
did little more than sign their names to docu-
ments prepared by the state appraisers. And most
extra appraisers kicked back half of their fees to
the clerk of the judge appointing them. A
probate-court clerk admitted getting $30,258 in
these kickbacks in a five-year period.
Why should a lawyer for an estate want to add
the expense of the unnecessary extra appraisers?
Said the committee report: "The suggestion that
he [the lawyer] request extra appraisers usually
came from the clerk of the probate court. Since
the clerk generally has working control over the
court calendar, he is in a position to see that
attorneys have their cases called soon after court
opens ... or if the clerk were so minded he
could keep an attorney cooling his heels all day
waiting for his case to be called."
Or as one San Francisco attorney put it:
"Fither you let him nick the estate for a few
hundred bucks or your case gets lost."
The extraordinary power of the probate-(f)urt
rlerk was illustrated in Chicago in 1952. There,
a C;hi(ago Sun-Times exposed- disclosed that deik
Jf)liri W. Tauchen decided the aj)))oininu'nls of
691 guardianships in a nine-month period. Of
these about 40 per cent went to four of Tauchen's
political cronies. One of them got 76 guardian-
ships in that period, or about two a week. The
Chicago Bar Association investigated, and al-
though it said that political appointments of
guardians was improper and that "certain unde-
sirable practices" had grown up in the probate
court, it concluded that Mr. Tauchen had been
an "efficient" clerk.
EVEN REFORMERS
HAVE DEBTS
EVERY few years movements start up here
and there throughout the country to reform
the probate system. But somehow they don't get
very far. In the state of Washington, for exam-
ple, three appraisers must be appointed in every
estate. A prominent Seattle attorney told me
why efforts to replace them with paid state em-
ployees fail in the legislature.
"The opposition always comes from politicians
who like a convenient way of paying political
debts. The party in power, be it Democratic or
Republican, likes to supply the Tax Commission
with the names of faithful party workers who
should be remembered when there are estates to
be appraised. The 'outs'? Well, they look for-
ward to the day when they will control the state
government and will want to pay oflF party
workers. .A.fter all, it's painless. It's a dead man's
money. Who's going to raise a fuss?"
In Minnesota I was surprised to find that the
appraisal system had not gotten any adverse
newspaper publicity. A leading Minneapolis at-
torney, whose firm handles some of the largest
estates in Minnesota, explained: "Why should
anyone expose the system? Check out the men
and women who get these juicy little appraiser
fees for no work and who will you find? State
legislators, attorneys with political connections,
politicians, and newspaper reporters. None of
them is likely to be interested in changing a sys-
tem that gives them this fine extra income every
year."
Even ardent reformers who set out to reform
the system seem to lose their zeal after a while.
In one large city a lawyer running for siuroo^ate
based his campaign on the fact that the court,
originally set up to protect widows and or))hans,
was actually milking their estates. He researched
court records and in campaign talks ho told
vhirli |)()h'ii( ians were milking xoJiidi estates for
liow much. He was not elected.
Not long ago I plioned this man and asked if
I;
■i
i
BY MURRAY TEIGH BLOOM
33
he could let me have some of the data he had un-
earthed duiing his campaign. He was obviously
embarrassed. With a forced laugh he admitted
that he had since benefited from some good
special-guardian appointments. "The way I look
at it now," he said, "is this: here's a lot of money
u[) for grabs. The heirs who are going to get
it don't deserve it. Hell, they didn't work for it.
So I have no hesitation in asking a large fee as
a special guardian. Nothing wrong with that, is
there?"
His current attitude is rather like that of
several Democratic and Republican leaders I
sjK)ke to in diflerent cities. They regard probate-
court patronage as an important means for re-
warding the party faithful. But none of the party
leaders would answer a question I asked: What
part of the special guardian or appraiser fee finds
its way back into the party coffers?
In California a state legislative aide who took
part in the San Francisco investigation told me:
"Some appraisers have to make generous contri-
butions to their party. No question of that."
In New York a retired lawyer recalled for me
the times when he made $5,000 to $6,000 a year
as a special guardian. "The Democratic county
organization had a complete record of what I got
out of patronage because at the end of the year,
usually at campaign time, I would get a call and
be reminded that I was expected to kick in. It
\vas understood that the contribution to the
county committee was 15 per cent of the fees.
HoAvever, there were additional payments: you
had to contribute to your own club, and somehow
word got around that your club leader was a
regular guy and would be pleased if you handed
him S25 now and then, in cash, as a token of your
appreciation. So that to keep in good all around
you would be handing back anywhere from a
third to 40 per cent of what you got. But since
you did almost nothing for what you kept, no-
body objected too much. I went back to my old
neighborhood recently and found that things
hadn't changed. The special guardian fees are
higher now— a few of them run to as much as 10
per cent of the total estate— but you're still ex-
pected to kick back about a third to the party."
CONFUSION, INC.
TH E freebooting atmosphere in some pro-
bate courts where favored lawyers and
clerks are legally permitted to dip with both
hands into estates is bound to affect other civil
servants in and around these courts. Two scan-
dals early in 1960 illustrate this:
In Illinois, law required a representative of
the State Treasurer's office to be present when
the safe-deposit box of a dead man was opened.
In 1960 it was charged that state examiners stole
cash and securities from such boxes by distract-
ing family representatives who were present when
the boxes were opened. Over several months^ it
was said, they had stolen more than $40,000.
In Los Angeles, Philip A. Adkins, chief deputv
in the Public Administrator's office was found
guilty, with two others, of looting nearly $60,000
in unclaimed estates in the custody of the Public
Administrator.
Reforming our probate courts and changing
the "anything goes" atmosphere will not be easy.
In nearly half the states the probate judge is not
even required to be trained in the law. "In
many counties," Professor Pierce of the Univer-
sity of Michigan Law School told me, "because
of defects in probate court orders by non-lawyers,
land titles are in a state of confusion. Future
generations will have to engage in considerable
litigation in order to clear those titles and make
those properties marketable."
In Connecticut, attempts to reorganize and re-
form the state's 123 probate courts have been
stymied by the powerful probate judges' lobby.
As the League of Women Voters of Connecticut
points out, "the present system provides for a
multitude of fees which are paid piecemeal at
so many different stages of the probate process
that it tends to create a vested interest in com-
plicated procedures."
In New York State, court-reform forces had to
agree to exclude the surrogate court before a
measure embodying consolidation of the state's
1,500 scattered courts was accepted by the legis-
lature. Politicians of both parties admitted that
in a thorough reform the surrogates woidd have
to be deprived of full control over the enormous
patronage of their courts.
"The vast majority of lawyers and judges in
the United States recognize the need for basic
reform in our probate courts," Professor Pierce
told me. "But few lawyers and fewer judges are
willing or have the courage to speak out.
"That means it is going to be up to the public
to make the start. The way to begin is for each
community to take a good, long look at what goes
on in the local probate court. Sooner or later
some of your family's money will be involved.
It's time we found out just what part of the
billions going through these courts sticks to the
fingers of politicians and court appointees. Then
we must find a way to jjut an end to this legal
extortion."
Harper's Magnzmc, August 1961
Robinson Crusoe in Florida
By JAN DE HARTOG
Drawings by Gil Walker
TO G E T the true impression of the conti-
nent of America, one should not land from
boat or plane, nor cross the border by train or
automobile, or even on foot.
One should wade ashore, like Robinson Crusoe,
through the lazy sinf of the Gulf of Mexico and
arrive on Florida's prehistoric and eternally
youthful beach. The jungle fringe aroinid that
big blue water never has time to grow up into
maturity— every thirty years or so a hurricane-
lashed tidal wave shears all vegetation off the
low'-lying land except the mangroves; so the
human wading out of the sea will not confront a
rioting jungle, but the aftermath of a disaster.
This is America: the eternal impermanence
of any living being, be it plant, beast, or man,
under the linking menace of cosmic fones about
to raze the table of (reation once more. And
what is newly created after the catastrf)phe is but
the image of what went l)efore: the neutral ado-
lescent groivth of green and flesh, living in con-
siani aivarencss of ilic ( loiids ol fury gathering
again be)oiid the hori/on.
Nowhere on these shores, or even in the plains
and the valleys beyond, has man imposed his will
with any semblance of permanence. No conti-
nent on earth has higher towers, longer bridges,
bigger dams; yet they fail to impress man as
monuments of his might. For even the firecracker
of his atom bomb is put to ridicule by the black
vortex of the tornado reaching tip into the sky,
and by the colossal thunder of the subtropic
lowlands, the tidal waves that crumble houses
and turn the roofs of churches to flotsam.
America, when approached from the sea, on
foot, alone, shows itself in its true nature as the
New World. Although it is as old as the rest of
the earth, it is unlike any world man has known
and conquered so far. It is unconquercd, and
will remain so iiniil man has found a new rela-
tionship, a new humility, and a new might by a
total conversion. In this land of hostile nature,
of twisters, luirricanes, poison oak and jjoison ivy,
where each holi<lay may end in deaili, eacli boat-
ride in disiisicr. ea( h nature-ramble in poisoned
agony, m.in needs another (iod than the one he
I
..
35
tamed in the old country, where the Holy Ghost
is safely locked up in spired prisons, garlanded
with ageless art.
In the heart of Florida is a large, mysterious
lake which a hurricane turns into a seething
cauldron of destruction, and which between these
cosmic spasms lies shimmering in a silver haze. It
is now called Lake Okeechobee, Big Water, but
the Spaniards when they first arrived gave the
unexplored swamp of which the lake was part the
name "Lake of the Holy Ghost." Although
the name of the lake has changed, the Spirit still
moves upon its waters, and nature lies waiting for
its liberation from fear in the soul of a new, still
uncreated man.
Soiaids of a Moonlit Night
A moonlit summei" night on Florida's West
Coast is different from anywhere else in the
world. Full moon in the Far East, when it rises
large and green out of the scented jjrofusion of
the jungle, is a magical occurrence. It seems
there as if the animal kingdom down to the
smallest marauders of the night are blessed, dur-
ing a few fleeting hours, with a human individ-
uality. The moonlit garden sings, warbles,
laughs, and patters with feverish joy, and the
listener to this Midstmimer Night's Dream is
overcome by a feeling of elation. The rustling,
leaping, laughing, and applauding around him
fill him with hope; it seems as if the animals
were lifted out of their fearsome darkness by the
touch of a magic wand and allowed to perceive,
darkly, the light of consciousness at the end of
evolution.
The Florida jungle, recently regrown after the
last hurricane's destruction, has a different at-
mosphere. As the moon rises, pale and distant,
over the undergrowth without trees or flowers,
the young wilderness is heard to awaken. The
first sound is a distant bleating, as if a herd of
goats came wandering near through the shrubs.
But they are not goats dreaming to be men, they
are frogs dreaming to be goats, and as the moon
rises higher, there rise with it other sounds in
the eerie night, sounds that seem elementary,
the sound of life awakening in matter. The
close-cropped shrubs, the shorn mangroves, the
crippled palms are given voice, and what they
express is not hope, but terror.
It is not the terror of evil, nor the ancient
terror of the hunted prey in the shadowless
moonlight. It is basest nature squeaking, squeal-
ing, lowing, and bleating in an agony of birth,
and what terrifies man in this cauldron of cre-
ation is the knowledge of what is to come. For
in the Florida jungle on the Gulf of Mexico
the Great Flood is still in the future.
After the shutters are closed and the lamp is
lit, the spell does not abate. Man stands lonely
in his cabin, listening, and he knows with pre-
historic intuition that in the darkness of eons
to come there is another disaster, \\aiting for
this planet Earth to swing, blindly, into its
rising tide.
The Waters of Venice
On my walks along the beach and through the
houseless streets of South Venice, I saw many
small openings in the jungle which, on close in-
spection, turned out to be little waterways. In
the end, the temptation to explore them became
so great that I procured a canoe, which could be
strapped on the roof of the second-hand car
I had bought, and set out to investigate.
I unstrapped the canoe, carried it down the
bank, got in, and after two strokes of the paddle
I hesitated. Within a matter of seconds I had
slid silently from the familiar reality of the
present into a timeless no-man's-land, where
past and future were one. The jungle on the
banks of the narrow winding stream was not
in itself surprising or exciting; there was just
the unshakable certainty, which had assailed me
from nowhere, that I was the first man ever to
visit this corner of the wilderness.
Of course this was nonsense, I thought. Hun-
dreds of people, over the centuries, must have
wandered into these narrow backwaters of "^V^est
Florida, even when it was still called something
else. And then I realized what had suddenly
thrown its spell over me: the undving awe of
those earlier visitors, still hovering between the
banks of the little stream, undisturbed by human
traffic. As noiselessly I drifted deeper into this
miniature maze, I felt as if I were growina: big-
ger, for the shrubs became lower and the little
Since boyhood, Jan de Hortog, Dutch novelist
and playtvright, has been fascinated by the sea. He
ran away at ten and sailed with a fishing smack
on the Zuider Zee; after the war, he bought a
venerable sailboat and used her extensively in
European waters, then shipped her by freighter to
the Gulf Coast of the JJ . S. A. and explored the
coastal waters from Houston to Florida and across
the peninsula through the heart of the Everglades.
This report is part of his new book. "Waters of the
New World," to be published by Atheneum in
October. Mr. de Hartogs earlier books include
"The Fourposter." a play, and the novels, "The
Lost Sea," and "The Inspector."
36
ROBINSON CRUSOE IN FLORIDA
stream narrower. It began to dawn on me that
my predecessors had been young boys; no man
in his senses would waste his time worming his
way into this rabbit warren of muddy water and
overheated shrub, for no animal of any value
would hide itself here, and fish could better be
caught in the bay where they had room to grow.
This was a world of useless newts, inedible coots
and tadpoles that fascinate only their equals in
the family of man. As the stream became too
narrow, even for the canoe, I wanted to get out
and wade on, as the boys must have done. But
the moment I stood up the charm broke, for I
was a giant looking out over a children's jungle,
feeling foolish. So I sat down again facing the
other way in the canoe which, luckily, was not
particular about stem or stern.
As I slowly poled my way back to my age, I
felt a strange elation. It had nothing to do with
memories of my own boyhood, nor with the
future; it had to do with what I had felt the
moment I penetrated into this small secret world
of childhood, playing at explorer, perhaps for
the last time in my life.
Sam Brown's Trading Post
The great wilderness of water, saw grass, and
clouds called the Everglades is one of the last
really wild territories in the United States. The
only way to penetrate into its heart is in a cum-
bersome vehicle called a swamp-buggy, which
is usually constructed by its owner.
The buggy in which my American friend and
I set out on our expedition to explore the sea
of grass had been built by our guide. It was an
old Ford Model-A on airplane tires, with snow-
chains to grip the mud; and perched on top of
this contraption, lurching and swaying as on an
elephant, we bounded down the new road to-
ward the wilderness on the first day of our jour-
ney. The Seminole Indian workmen building
the road looked incongruous in the American
laborer's uniform of khaki pants and khaki shirt,
and they were led by a red-faced white super-
visor who was very hot. Two Indians lurched
about on a couple of gigantic snorting bull-
dozers, painted yellow, that pushed carloads of
sand in front of them into the marsh for the
continuation of the road. There was sand every-
where along the track and broken young trees
and lethal coils of rusty old barbed wire, hist
remnants of forgotten claims, now uprooted by
the proud Indians on their mechanical monsters.
"We'll stoj) here," our guide said; "I want to
show you the monument." My friend asked,
"Monument?" and the guide told us that this
was the spot where Sam Brown's Trading Post
had been, subject of countless ballads and camp-
fire stories among the Indians and the trappers
of the Everglades. It had been a true outpost to
progress; here the Indians had brought their
wares to barter for guns, alcohol, and patent
medicine. Here the first Bibles had been handed
out to them free with their month's shopping,
and from here the first missionary had set out
into the jungle, never to return. Some people
said the missionary had settled on a hammock
in the heart of the marsh, forgetting about con-
verting other people once he was faced, like
Jacob, with God in the wilderness. Others said
he had been killed by the Indians, or escaped
convicts, but our guide himself thought he had
probably crossed the Everglades and come out
at the other end, without having met anybody,
and gone elsewhere on his search for souls. We
were, so the guide said with an odd reverence
for so matter-of-fact a man, standing on hallowed
ground. Sam Brown's Trading Post had domi-
nated this gateway to the Everglades for over
half a century; it had been burned down and re-
built, besieged and relieved, shots had rung out
and hymns had been sung, and from the eucalyp-
tus tree in the shade of which evangelists had
healed the sick, many a man had been lynched
by ranchers whose cattle had vanished in the
wilderness. This had been the dawn of America,
and it was fitting that a monument had been
erected to mark the site.
We got down and looked around for the monu-
ment; there was nothing to be seen but the man-
grove shrubs damaged by the bulldozers, the
soggy sand of the new road, the coils of old
barbed wire and the Indians and their machines,
thrusting and rearing in their slow, proud joust-
ing match.
"What are you guys looking for?" the sweating
foreman asked as he saw us rummage in the
shrubs.
"A monument," we said, with an ingratiating
smile because the supervisor looked sorely tried.
"Monument?" he said. "You don't mean the
bit of stone with the disk on top?"
We said we didn't know. All we knew was that
somewhere around here, there should be a monu-
ment to Sam Brown's Trading Post.
"Sam who?" the supervisor asked in an alarm-
ing effort to be jocular. Then our guide came
back from the shrubs with his machete and he
obviously made the same impression on the super-
visoi that the supervisor had made on us.
"Where is the monument, you lousy sand-
pusher?" he asked.
BY JAN DE HARTOG
37
"How would I know?" the supervisor replied,
a small helpless cog in the vast machine ol
bureaucracy. "Nobody's told me anything about
a monument. I did find a bit of stone with a
metal disk on top but ..."
"That's it!" the guide said. "Where is it? If
you have knocked the thing over ..."
"Hell, no," the supervisor cried. "I ain't
knocked nothing over. It's right there. It ... "
"Look out!" my friend cried, and just in time,
for the supervisor had almost thrown himself in
front of one of his bulldozers as he scurried across
the road. He darted aside, shook both fists at the
Indian high above him, who ignored him and
swung his monster round with power and pride.
"Here it is!" the supervisor's voice called across
the white sand. "Right here!" We waded to-
ward him, and found him hastily dusting some-
thing with his rolled-up shirt.
It was the lowest monument I have ever seen,
a milestone with a brass disk riveted on top of
it. In the disk had been hammered, with irregu-
lar letters, "This is the site of Sam Broivn's fa-
mous Trading Post xuhere . . . " The next few
lines were illegible because of a recent scratch
made with a very big instrument, and the last
line ended with, ". . . bless America."
While the guide and the supervisor had words,
my friend photographed the monument before it
became part of the new road into nowhere.
Only much later, in the heart of the wilder-
ness, did we realize what the real monument had
been: the white road being born, the Indians
on their bulldozers, proudly pushing their way
into the haunt of ghosts -where their ancestors
were waiting. If the monument of Sam Brown's
Trading Post had been too small to see, the real
one had been too big for three little ants, scram-
bling across a sand dune in the heart of the river
of grass.
Inside the Big Cypress Swamp
We had skirted the fringe of Big Cypress
Swamp a week before penetrating into the Ever-
glades. The friend with whom I made the expe-
dition had taken me in his car from Route 41,
the Tamiami Trail, to Immokalee, just to give
me an idea of what the Everglades would be like.
The road was hot and dusty and quite new,
with innumerable little bridges made of concrete,
dazzling white in the sun. On the right hand
side was a ditch, and beyond that the Big Cypress
Swamp.
It was just a forest of dead trees, draped with
the torn shrouds of Spanish moss, and seemed
endless. As we drove on, past mile after mile
of dead marshy forest, dotted here and there
with distant colonies of white birds that created
the illusion of whitewashed cottages hidden in
the woods, the Big Cypress Swamp began by its
very monotony to exert a A\eird fascination. We
began to understand why the legends of the
Indians describe the big swamp as the home of
ghosts and goblins, and Avhy in their symbolic
world the dead do not go on hunting in eternal
pastures, but, standing in slender canoes, silently
drift among the pillars of the great and still
catl>edral that is Big Cypress Swamp. My friend
and I, after driving silently along the new road
alongside the great forest, both felt a longing to
venture inside.
When we finally did, on top of our guide's
38 ROBINSON CRUSOE IN FLORIDA
swamp-buggy that snorted and splashed its way
pugnaciously through the Indians' Hereafter, it
was quite different. There was no atmosphere
of goblins ;ind ghosts, nor did the Gothic caverns
of the forest seem haunted by old men standing
in slender canoes. The reason was, perhaps, that
we followed a trail that had been bulldozed a
year before by a crew of oil prospectors; if the
forest was haunted by anything at all it was by
the memory of that first exploration. On the
hillocks between which the trail weaved its way
erratically, there were the remnants of those first
white men's campfires: rusty cans riddled with
the holes of pistol practice, beer bottles, and the
broken Bakelite casing of a portable radio set. At
the sight of that shell inside which only a year
ago had croaked the midtitongued voice of in-
visible men in the stillness of the forest, it began
to dawn on me why there was not a goblin left in
the swamp. For what is the wandering glowworm
or a will-o'-the-wisp compared to a shrill little
voice shouting "Get regidar the nattiral way!"
in Spanish, from Havana?
No ghost haunted by the memory of the living
can silently glide nearer to God in the frail
canoe of his dreams, if across the twilight path
shimmering between the trees there crashes a
yellow monster with a horizontal axe, thrusting
its way toward man's eternal hope: oil. And
the pistol shots, aimed at Libby's Pork and Beans
for practice, must have chased not only the
laughing bird, the owl, and the roseate ibis, but
also the pernicious jewel of Aloka, caught in the
giant spider's web, and Treetah, the monkey hid-
ing human children he had stolen to teach his
brood the way of men. And now here we were
with our little machine, spluttering, slobbering,
lunging along the trail made by our big me-
chanical brother, and looking hopefully about us
for the world of myth and mystery.
When, toward nightfall, we came splashing out
of the forest into the boundless desert of water
that was the Everglades, now blooming with the
giant flower of the sunset, the guide said, "Well,
that was Big Cypress Swamp! Did you fellows
like it?"
We both hastened to say that we had liked it
very much; neither of us confessed to our secret
nostalgia for the Big Cypress Swamp as we had
seen it from the outside that magic afternoon,
long ago, last week.
The Eunuchs of the Wilderness
To reach the heart of the River of Grass, you
must pass through ilic ouiskiris of ( ivilizaiion.
Outside the hist setilcmcm of Inmiokalce, there
is a shanty town of the Negroes who work on the
sugar plantation; then the bleak barracks of the
itinerant Mexican laborers; then the wall-less,
thatched hovels of the Seminole Indians, brood-
ing morosely among the rusty junk of broken
cars. Finally, beyond the barbed wire of the out-
ermost ranch, there is the great plain.
The last ripple of the concentric rings of man's
civilization is the straggling herd of steers called
scrub cattle, the lowest-grade beef, roaming on
the fringe of the wilderness. During the first day
of your trek you still spot them occasionally, peer-
ing at the limging swamp-buggy from behind a
palmetto shrub or a mangrove bush, with big
pointed horns over eyes that are void of all com-
prehension. At first these steers, grazing in small
bands on the shore of emptiness, are anonymous
but as you venture deeper into the wilderness, the
increasing loneliness turns them into individuals.
Then there is the last straggler and the swamp-
buggy stops, impulsively, to hail the last living
being before the void.
"You'll see they're quite tame," said the guide,
who, the day before, had not even deigned to
look at them as they fled, tails in the air, through
the flooded pastures.
But the gazing steer is not tame. He is not
wild either. He is just one mindless body of the
great herd of castrated bulls, a eunuch in the
wilderness.
The melancholy of this last steer before the
great beyond is haunting. There he stands, knee-
deep in the mire, staring with the vacant gaze of
neuterdom at the big armadillo of the swamp-
buggy and its sun-hatted white mice. The birds,
the wildcats, even the snakes that sparsely dot
the waste of the Everglades, all have an in-
dependence that suggests a personality, even from
afar. When the limpkin swoops from the man-
groves and vanishes, squawking, in the waving
grass, you feel that, if you could follow it and
alight by its side in the tangled shrub of its
secret lair, you coidd talk with it— if only you
knew the language— and hear fascinating tales
of water, willows, toad and lizard, of eggs gleam-
ing like ivory in the twilight and the tragedy of
the lonely white feather floating on the lake.
But no one on earth, not even the most humili-
ated and down-trodden, could ever talk with an
Everglades steer. For here grows a body, and
that is all; man has extinguished the spark of
eternity within it and, with it, life itself.
As the swamp-buggy sjilashes on into the wil-
derness on its lonely journey, you remain con-
scious of the steer gazing after you, even when
you liave lost sight of one another at last. There
BY JAN DE HARTOG
39
is in its gaze no sadness or reproach; it is the
vacant gaze of irreparable idiocy, an imbecile in
the death house. As the buggy splashes along,
the dour guide suddenly starts to sing, the im-
pulsive song of relief of all explorers as they
finally face the great solitude where no one needs
wonder why he should be his brother's keeper.
The Great American Bird
The Pilgrim Fathers hunted the wild turkey,
ate it, and gave thanks; it was the beginning of
a great joy for the new nation and of a great
sorrow for the turkey. In the centuries that fol-
lowed, as the American po[)ulation began to
number millions, billions of turkeys were raised
for slaughter at Thanksgiving and Christmas, and
so there is now no American alive who can see a
turkey without instantly thinking of roasting it.
I can furnish no better measure of the para-
disiacal state of Nicodcmus Slough than the fact
that the wild turkeys are not afraid of man.
We came across a flock of them somewhere in
this vast, wild garden, and the ginde instantly
swerved the swamp-buggy off its course to pursue
them. He had no intention of shooting them, it
was just an instinctive reaction. At the other
birds we had seen he had only pointed, crying,
"Look, the limpkin!" or, "There goes the wood
ibis!" but at the sight of the turkey, the force
of tradition made him splash and bump after the
fleet animals that barely increased the speed of
their graceful gait to keep their distance.
Watching the wild turkeys tmn flight into
dignified disapproval was to understand their sad
and pensive brother in its cage, waiting for the
birthday of Man's Saviour. It must have in its
wordless mind this very image: a flock of its
gray muscular brothers, running sedately through
water and marsh, pursued by a panting, swaying,
snorting monster ridiculous in its powerless
greed. The guide stood up behind the wheel and
shouted, "Boo!" and "Bang!" and "Ratatat!" but
these sounds meant as little to the unhurried
birds as the frantic cry of "Radiation!" would
mean to a Papuan. So he stopped, got out some
bread from under the seat, broke oft a piece and
threw it at the turkeys. This was the moment at
which, of one mind, they took to the air.
That night, round the campfire, we talked
about the sanctuary of Nicodemus Slough, and
how we seemed to have wandered into Paradise.
Both the guide and my friend agreed that the
American idea of Paradise was best expressed in
the painting by the old Quaker, Edward Hicks,
"The Peaceable Kingdom," which is the New
World's version of the Garden of Eden. It is a
primiti\e painting, showing guileless children
playing with a mixed company of panthers,
lambs, mountain lions, doves, and fox cubs. In
the background is the great Quaker, William
Penn, concluding his peace treaty with the In-
dians. The only thing lacking, so my companions
agreed, in that glorious j^ictme of the American
Paradise, was a long festive table, decked with
flowers and frint, bread, all kinds of cheese, and
cold turkey.
So, even after the peaceable kingdom has ma-
terialized, if you see a turkey gazing morosely at
the horizon through the bars of its pen, from
which it could flee if only it knew where, sidle up
to it, look to the left, look to the right, and whis-
per, "Everglades."
The Lovely Scourge of the South
If you ask the bargees or the tugboat captains
to name the scourge of the South, they will an-
swer without hesitation: the water hyacinth. And
you cannot help reflecting what a blessed country
this is, that even its scourge shoidd be so ravish-
ingly beautiful.
The water hyacinth, so those who have studied
the question tell us, was introduced into the
United States in the latter half of the last century
by a lady who loved gardening and who was
presented with a basket of blooms for her pond
by a nameless beau in Brazil. She put the small
40
ROBINSON CRUSOE IN FLORIDA
posy tenderly in her pond and let it float out of
her white hands in the silver of the sky; it drifted
silently away, among the clouds and the lily pads,
and choked the rivers of the South with its silent
message of love. If ever there was a romantic
flower it surely is the water hyacinth, and no
throttled life lines of any overcultured country
can boast a sweeter strangulation.
The bloom that floated from the lady's hands
multiplied a zillionfold and now the bayous of
Louisiana look like meadows, the ditches of
Florida flower with delicate mauve blossoms, and
even in that hidden fairyland of solitude, Nico-
demus Slough, the blooms of love drift down
Fish-Eating Creek. The only thing that gives
away the sad truth that they are not flowers but
weeds is the fact that they have no scent.
The traveler, seated on the bank of this
romantic stream, gazing at the silent procession
of posies, bouquets, flowerbeds, and triimiphant
islands of blooms, becomes aware that the water
hyacinth's disastrous invasion of the waterways
of the South is a quest for an elusive goal.
To sit on a river's bank in the South and watch
the hyacinths float by, accompanied by their re-
flection, first inspires the beholder with philo-
sophic thoughts, then with silence, and in the
end with an inexpressible feeling of hope. For
whether the hyacinth ever reaches the bliss of
scent or whether the traveler will ever behold
the dawn of truth, seems, after this glimpse of
eternity, immaterial. What counts is the hope
itself; rare and precious are the moments when
this silent message comes floating down the
stream of life.
The Place Called Indian Prairie
The first time I set eyes on Indian Prairie
was from the banks of Fish-Eating Creek. There,
across the still water in which the hyacinths
drifted among the clouds, I saw a silver world,
guarded by motionless ibises and a host of snowy
egrets that looked like small white angels at
play. The boundless waste of water, saw grass,
sky, and clouds radiated an exultant promise; the
promise of journey's end, the goal of all for-
gotten pilgrims.
I asked the guide what it was and he said, "Oh,
that's Indian Prairie."
I stood gazing at the promised land, trying to
put into words what it was that held this great
promise, what the secret was of this dazzling
radiance of peace and hope. But I turned away
without the answer; all I had acquired was the
haunting knowledge that, somewhere in the heart
of this continent of mountains and rivers, of
thundering cataracts and chortling brooks, there
was a place called Indian Prairie where the In-
dian warriors had gone to their eternal bliss and
where there was peace.
The next day we penetrated, again by swamp-
buggy, into a forest of fallen palm trees, tangled
vines, and dead cypress draped with moss. After
a struggle of hours ^ the forest suddenly broke
open into a great expanse of light and water. As
far as the eye could reach there was a silver desert
of water and grass, and again this land of promise
was guarded by the motionless sentinels of ibises,
perched on their watchtowers of oak across the
river, and again, in the far distance, there was the
fluttering white flock of thousands upon thou-
sands of dancing egrets. The peace across the
still water stimned us to silence; after we had
stood watching for a long time, overawed by its
eerie bliss, my friend asked the guide, "Indian
Prairie again?" and the guide nodded.
"Let's go there," I suggested.
But the guide shook his head. "Too far for
us," he said.
I have since seen Indian Prairie many times.
I have seen it open up beyond small towns, at
the turning of a highway, behind a fringe of
palms on the coastline, at the far end of the
canyons of Manhattan. It is the soul of America
that the white man will forever hope to capture,
it is the reason why the keynote of the American
dream is conquest, and the core of the American
doubt a sense of futility. Indian Prairie is every-
where on this continent, yet no white man will
ever get there. It is too far for us.
Harper's Magazine, August 1961
McNAMARA
JOSEPH KRAFT
AND HIS ENEMIES
For the first lime in years, a Secretary of
Defense is really running the Pentagon —
with a vigor and decisiveness that have dazzled
some military men, infuriated others.
He has won the first skirmishes . . . but
his battle is far from over.
ON E of the issues in the 1959 Congres-
sional hearings on the defense budget
concerned a choice between two nearly identical
projects for knocking down enemy planes. De-
fense Secretary Neil McElroy acknowledged that
he had not made up his mind, and indicated
some complex technical questions were involved.
He told the Congress:
As far as I am concerned, it would not bother
me if you held our feet to the fire and forced us
[to make a choice].
One of the issues in the 1961 hearings on the
defense budget concerned a decision to strike
from the Air Force estimates a project for a
nuclear-propelled aircraft. In the midst of a long
and highly technical discussion, a Congressman
gently implied that Defense Secretary Robert
McNamara had not been able to give the matter
"personal attention." By the time the Secretary
got the floor back, the imputation had been
muted, and he could have lobbed the ball back
or let it go entirely. Instead he gave it the hard,
overhead smash. He told the Congress:
I am not accustomed to making recommenda-
tions on matters affecting the life of this nation
without personally investigating them to the fullest
extent.
The contrast in those two attitudes toward
decision— the one passive, not to say reluctant;
the other active, not to say eager— exemplifies in
little a vast change that has come over the Penta-
gon. Mr. McNamara, a management-control man
from way back, has been moving with systematic
determination to impose a coherent, pragmatic
logic over the whole defense establishment.
Backed by a small group of civilian aides, he has
forced the pace relentlessly in matters of person-
nel, procedure, weapons systems, and general
strategic doctrine. To some he has become the
hero of the new Administration. 'Tor the first
time," a Pentagon civilian claims, "we have a
Secretary who takes questions of national defense
as a personal responsibility."
Inevitably, however, the Secretary has pene-
trated deep into fields once reserved for the mili-
tary. He has barked shins throughout the coun-
try's polity and economy. A stream of complaints
has flowed from the Armed Services and their
friends and clients. Carl Vinson, the powerful
chairman of the House Armed Services commit-
tee, has semipublicly "warned" the Secretary
against abridging the independence of the Serv-
ices and their Secretaries. Virtually the whole
press has joined in criticizing McNamara for
what the Washington Post has called "The
Closed Door Policy of the Defense Department."
Blue suits and brown alike have charged that, as
the Army, Navy, Air Force Journal put it, "the
professional military leadership of the nation is
being short-circuited in the current decision-
making process at the Pentagon." "A Japanese
general who got a query like this," one officer
has said of one of the Secretary's brisker memos,
"would commit suicide."
So far no concerted attack has been mounted
on McNamara, and it cannot even be said that
a general issue has been squarely joined. He has
not lost a major decision, and in the skirmishing
he is ahead on points. But in this kind of fight
the purpose of the opposition is like tIK purpose
42
McNAMARA AND HIS ENEMIES
ol ihe opposition to French premiers in the days
before De Gaulle. The aim is not to score a
knockout. It is to create a sense of frustration
and weakness that ultimately makes compromise
and concession inevitable.
KNOWING THE ALTERNATIVES
IN February, March, and April of 1924, the
magazine Management and Administration
carried a series of articles written by Donaldson
Brown, a du Pont and General Motors executive,
and entitled "Pricing Policy in Relation to Finan-
cial Control." They told the story of how central
management, that is to say du Pont, had estab-
lished a tight rein over the far-flung General Mo-
tors divisions. They taught the lesson that in the
management of huge and complex organizations,
the traditional reliance on experience and intui-
tion was not sufficient. Additionally there had to
be: deliberate analysis of all functions; formula-
tion of alternate ways of doing the same thing;
and an explicit choice made among the alterna-
tives—if possible on the basis of numerical data.
Management control, Brown wrote, involves "a
manifestation of the principles on which any
measure or course of action is based, having re-
gard to both the ends aimed at and the measures
used to arrive at them."
Though the articles attracted little public at-
tention, they stirred enduring interest among
professional students of administration— notably
at the Harvard Business School. There in the
late 1930s, the articles became known to a bright
young Californian who came to learn and stayed
to teach. He was Robert Strange McNamara.
Ever since then, McNamara has been weigh-
ing, testing, refining, and applying the doctrine
of management control. He has been a company
man par excellence, repeatedly coming in from
the wings to establish the authority of central
management over widely dispersed operations.
As an officer in World War II, he helped estab-
lish a system of Statistical Control that made it
easier for the Air Force to keep track of pro-
curement activities spread out in thousands of
plants across the country. As a junior executive,
before becoming comjjtroller and then in 1960
president, he helped the Ford Motor Company
develop a cost-accounting system that co-ordi-
nated production, purchasing, and investment
with sales.
The emphasis r)n management control sets
McNamara apart ftf>m the fjthcr succcsslnl men
of business (the bankers Robert I-f)vetl and
James Forrcstal, the (orporatif)n lawyers Thomas
Gates and Louis Johnson, the industrialists
Charles Wilson and Neil McElroy) who have
preceded him as Defense Secretary. It is the
guideline of his career, and he has made it the
ruling principle at the Pentagon. As he puts it:
I see niv position here as being that of a leader,
not a judge. I'm here to originate and stimulate
new ideas and programs, not just to referee argu-
ments and harmonize interests. Using deliberate
analysis to force ahernative programs to the sur-
face, and then making explicit choices among them
is fundamental.
As a walking advertisement for active manage-
ment, McNamara knows few peers. Youthful
(forty-four) and vigorous (a skier and mountain
climl^er), he works from seven to seven, six days
a week, and generally j)uis in a few hours on
Sunday. Speed is a special forte: his rule is to
make his own decisions within seven days, and
he has jolted Pentagon staffs with requests for
answers within days on complex issues (the fu-
ture of the aircraft carrier, for example) that they
have been arguing about for years. A bug for
figures, he once asked a group trying to analyze
the specially messy problem of limited war to
put tabular boxes in their report even if they
couldn't come up with the numbers to fill them:
"That way we'll know what we're looking for and
can't find." His search for alternatives, in par-
ticular, is systematic. "In the old days," a Pen-
tagon scientific adviser recalls, "we'd sometimes
have a recommendation kicked back with a re-
quest for alternatives. McNamara won't even
look at a thing unless the alternatives are there."
In matters of decision, the Secretary is mindful
of the value of hedging and of what he calls
putting the decision "ahead of me." "He always
wants to know," one assistant says, "what the
penalty is for failure." He Avas barely in office
when he decided that he would put off for at least
a year a decision on unifying the Services. At
about the same time he explicitly concluded that
until he got more experience, he woidd defer
Joseph Kraft began to catch ideas for this
article while working on a report for "Harper's"
on the RAND Corporation, published in July I960,
and while flying over the 11. S. A. in the Kennedy
campaign plane last fall; he did the close-up study
this summer at the Pentagon. Mr. Kraft's first book,
"The Struggle for Algeria," will be published in
October by Doublrday. During World War II, Mr.
Kraft interrupted his college course at Columbia
to serve in the Army in Washington as a Japanese
translator: he has since worked on the "Washington
Post" and the "New York Times."
BY JOSEPH KRAFT
43
on matters of foreign policy to Dean Rusk and
the State Department.
As a nay-sayer, the Secretary can be formidable.
Despite pressure from the President, he rejected
two political suggestions for appointment: Frank-
lin D. Roosevelt, Jr. as Secretary of the Navy; and
Joseph Keenan of the AFL-CIO as Assistant
Secretary of Defense for Manpower. Despite great
Administration emphasis on the need to be able
to fight limited wars, despite enormous pressure
from the Army for more men, despite a green
light from the White House and the Congress on
appropriations, the Secretary is still not con-
vinced that the appropriate way to use limited-
war strength has been foimd, and he has
recommended only slight increases in the forces—
and those chiefly in the Marines.
On the yea-saying end of the decision business,
he is hardly an enthusiast. But he walks fast
toward meetings about a fighter plane that can
be used for all three services. A glint comes into
his eye when he speaks of an Army plan for
speeding up the readiness of Reserve imits. Noth-
ing, moreover, seems to dull his interest. "I
never seem to be put off by technical problems
of law, or finance, or engineering," he once con-
fided to an associate. "He doesn't know much
about painting or literature," one of the few
Washington hostesses who has been able to bag
the Secretary asserts. "But he really cares. He
boimces into the room, and you have the im-
pression he wants to talk to everyone about every-
thing."
By good luck or wise choice (McNamara un-
abashedly claims the latter and shows a thick
personnel card file to back the claim), the Secre-
tary has surrounded himself with persons who—
while coming from different backgrounds and
having different interests— share his immediate
purpose. Of particular help have been the vari-
ous public and private groups which have been
bending their backs over defense problems out-
side the Pentagon. They offered a reservoir of
experienced men who in the nature of their jobs
had been searching for alternatives to the tradi-
tional ways of the Defense Department and the
Services. From the group that prepared the
Rockefeller Brothers Fund report on defense,
McNamara chose his Deputy Secretary, the lawyer
Roswell Gilpatric. From the Livermore Labora-
tory he took his Director of Research and Engi-
neering, the physicist Harold Brown. From the
RAND Corporation he took his Comptroller, the
economist Charles Hitch. From the Johns Hop-
kins Foreign Policy Research Center he took his
Assistant Secretary for International Security
Affairs, the banker and former government offi-
cial Paul Nitze. From the Senate Preparedness
subcommittee he took his General Counsel, the
lawyer Cyrus Vance.
Though some components, notably Nitze's ISA
staff— which follows some State Department pro-
cedures—have fitted awkwardly, common purpose
has worn away individual bias to an astonishing
degree. As a former Assistant and Under Secre-
tary, Mr. Gilpatric, for example, had been known
as an Air Force man. But despite Air Force
reservations, he has been one of the sturdy pro-
pcjnents of the tri-Service fighter plane. In testi-
mony to a Congressional committee last March
he could have been McNamara himself: "We
don't believe that important decisions . . . can
be deferred pending attempts to work out a
modus Vivendi which will be satisfactory to
everybody."
McNamara and his band were hardly in place
before they began busting open problems for
decision. As a first step, the Secretary named task
forces, headed by members of his civilian staff
and including important Service representation,
to study four problems that covered the whole
range of Pentagon responsibilities: Nuclear War;
Limited War; Research and Development; In-
stallations and Logistics. The task force reports,
among other things, identified major subprob-
lems within each area. To tackle these, the
Secretary has sent out over a hundred major re-
quests for information and recommendations.
The inquiry about the uses of the aircraft carrier
is a typical example. Another asked for com-
ments on a plan to merge the Army's Strategic
Army Corps with the Air Force's Tactical Air
Command in a single limited-war unit. Still a
third, of more grandiose proportions, called for
"a draft memorandum revising the basic national-
security policies and assumptions including the
assumptions relating to 'counterforce strikes' (nu-
clear attack on an enemy's military forces) and
the initiation of the use of tactical atomic
weapons."
THE PRIME REQUISITE
ON T H E basis of the replies, McNamara
has been making decisions at a pace un-
known in the peacetime annals of the Pentagon.
A whole range of actions flowed from the finding
of the Nuclear War study that the prime requi-
site was protection of America's deterrent power
against a surprise Soviet attack. In keeping with
that emphasis, the Secretary recommended to the
Congress: a 50 per cent increase, to be achieved
44
McNAMARA AND HIS ENEMIES
by 1964, in the Polaris submarine force— which
can be dispersed and concealed in the seas; a
100 per cent increase, to be achieved by 1968, in
the production capacity for Minuteman missiles
—which can be protected and, to some extent,
hidden underground; a 50 per cent increase in
the number of bombers which can be got off the
ground on fifteen minutes' notice; a $50-million
increase in the Skybolt missiles to be fired from
attacking bombers; a $60-million increase in the
Midas warning system. Because of the step-up
in Polaris and Minuteman strength, he canceled
out orders for two squadrons of a larger and more
costly long-range missile, the Titan II, scratching
that rather than the more vidnerable Atlas, be-
cause the latter was much further along in pro-
duction and would fill the gap until the Polaris
and Minuteman are ready.
Limited War studies are still in the works.
One version, several inches thick, was boiled
down by the Secretary himself to a list of ques-
tions only three-quarters of a page long. Even
so, the exercise has already indicated that the
problem lies less in the number of troops avail-
able, than in getting them to the right place at
the right time. To this end the Secretary has
already recommended a 75 per cent increase in
the airlift capacity of the Military Air Transport
Service; an increase of 15,000 men in the Marine
Corps and 5,000 in the Army; and a reshaping of
the Reserve organization designed to make avail-
able two Reserve divisions on three weeks' notice.
The Research and Development report spot-
lighted several major programs that were either
in duplication with other projects or proceeding
so slowly as to be of dubious worth when com-
pleted. The Secretary canceled entirely the ex-
pensive program for a nuclear-powered aircraft.
In the expectation of developing a tri-Service
fighter, he also canceled out, at an immediate
saving of S58 million, a program for a new Navy
fighter— the Eagle-Missileer. In what may be his
most controversial decision, he hedged on the
B-70 long-range, supersonic bomber. He main-
tained the project at the development stage, thus
keeping open the option for eventual production.
Rut he held off on advance toward the produc-
(ion stage on the ground that production costs
wr)uld run into the billions while even at the
earliest prochution date, missiles might make the
))lane obsolescent.
The Lf)gisii(s and Insiallaiions report un-
covered l?y installations (52 in this (ountry, 21
abroad) that were surplus U) the needs o( ilic
'lefensc establishment. The Secretary has ordeied
them closed down. FIc has also set up, lor the
first time in the Pentagon, an Office of Economic
Adjustment, to ease the impact of the closings on
hard-hit communities and, if possible, to find
constrtictive uses for the abandoned facilities.
"a quick fix"
IN addition to these operational decisions, the
Secretary has been working out important pro-
cedural changes with General Counsel Vance and
Comptroller Hitch. Under Vance, there has been
set up an Office of Organization and Manage-
ment Planning. It has a general mission to hunt
out organizational changes apt to improve effi-
ciency. For example, it is looking at the idea of
placing each major weapon system vmder a single
project boss— the method followed by the Navy
in developing the Polaris. It is also considering
the possibility of consolidating fimctions that all
three Services perform independently— intelli-
gence, for example.
Hitch has been given the green light for two
proposals outlined in his much discussed book.
The Economics of Defense in the Nuclear Age.
He is putting into effect within the Depart-
ment the so-called Performance Budget. Gone
are the days of only considering Service estimates
piecemeal in terms of personnel, procvirement,
constrtiction, etc. Now the requests are also
grouped into major categories that relate to
military purposes, or what Hitch calls "end-
product missions." Thus there is one major
category for the Nuclear Deterrent, followed by
a listing of all the different elements, and their
costs, that contribute to the deterrent strength.
Hitch argues that "officials can make more per-
ceptive judgments about the importance to the
nation of these missions than they can make
about" such items as personnel which could be
used for anything.
He has also established a Programming Office
that, among other things, should end the old
practice of fitting defense estimates to arbitrary
budget ceilings. In the pnst, the military would
make plans— involving billions of dollars spent
over many years— without reference to the money
that was available. To hold them in bounds,
previous Administrations established dollar ceil-
ings, and ordered the military to cut their re-
quests accordingly. The residt was stretch-out,
cutback, and the punishing annual clash between
military men and budgeteers that was so promi-
nent a feature of the Eisenhower years.
Through the Programming Office, Hitch plans
to associate budgeteers with the military men
early in the planning phase. A rough j)rice lag
BY JOSEPH KRAFT
45
will be put on all projects, not only for one year,
but for the lifetime of the project and including
development, production, and operating ex-
penses. In that way the military planners will
be obliged to consider the financial implications
of what they do at all times. "We want," Hitch
puts it, "to introduce cost considerations at the
right time— when the decisions are first made . . .
and not later in the cycle during the hectic stages
of some annual budget review."
In looking back over what has been done, the
Secretary emphasizes that it is only a first in-
stallment—"a quick fix," in Pentagon argot. He
also acknowledges that "the changes are not
minor." On that there is no argument. Only
something major could have called forth, as the
McNamara program has, the defense establish-
ment's immense, multiform, deep, and abiding
capacity to resist.
FRIENDS OF STANDPAT
THREE days before he left the White
House, President Eisenhower issued a por-
tentous warning to the nation. His Farewell
Address spoke of the "conjunction of an immense
military establishment and a large arms indus-
try." It said:
The total influence— economic, political, even
spiritual— is felt in every city, every State House,
every office of the federal government. . . . We must
guard against the acquisition of unwarranted in-
fluence, whether sought or unsought, by the mili-
tary industrial complex.
Numerical evidence for that argument is im-
pressive. The Armed Services, at the heart of the
"complex," include 2.5 million uniformed per-
sonnel. More than a million civilians work di-
rectly for the Defense Department. Between
three and four million people support their fami-
lies on earnings from defense contractors. Half
the national budget and about a twelfth of the
gross national product go into defense expendi-
tures. A hundred of the nation's biggest and
most powerful companies, many of them entirely
dependent upon defense business, do more than
$15-billion worth of annual business with the
Defense Department. Dozens of major communi-
ties depend on defense business and installations
for taxes, local commerce, real-estate values, and
employment and union activities. In Los Angeles,
for example, more than half the jobs come,
directly or indirectly, from defense business.
It is dubious— highly dubious— whether "the
complex" as a whole has the cohesion or single-
ness of purpose to enforce its will on the nation
in any major issue. A strong case can be made
that the pluralism of the system— the separate-
ness of the Armed Services, the spread of defense
business and installations— is an almost absolute
surety against undue influence of a positive kind.
But the whole "complex" shares, and feels inti-
mately, the experience of life in an age of rapidly
changing technology. Each of the constituent
elements— and that includes the flyers of the B-70
as much as its makers; the Corps of Engineers
as much as the PX manager; the battleship ad-
mirals as much as the shipyard workers— lives in
the shadow of obsolescence. They are constantly
on guard against changes that, rightly or wrongly,
they consider a threat. Potentially, they are all
Luddites.
The professional military men, moreover, are
conspicuous for dedication to the service of the
nation. They are familiar with the country's
military posture, and with the deadly menace of
potential enemies. They believe strongly and
sincerely in what they are doing, and in what
their units and Services are doing. To fight for
these is, to them, a matter of simple, patriotic
duty. And they possess, apart from the foot-
dragging powers native to all bureaucracies,
enormous resources in the press, the Congress,
and the general area of public debate.
The press is important because it provides a
way for the military to vent their views without
the risk of public identification and counterargu-
ment entailed in Congressional testimony. A
large segment of the press— the professional mili-
tary journals and the trade magazines catering to
defense industry— start off with a friendly bias.
More general newspapers tend to line up with
the military because the leaks staff officers can
supply are usually more intriguing (to reporters,
editors, and readers alike) than the official hand-
outs of the Defense Department. A clampdown
on leaks, moreover, is especially jierilous. It
bands the reporters and the military together in
embattled defense of the freedom of information
—a subject as dear to the press as theoietical argu-
ment is to Talmudic scholars, and often with
about the same relevance to reality.
The Congress, of course, is heavy with mem-
bers who are quite properly concerned to look
after the interests of their coiisliiiuMiis. Thou-
sands of j)eople in the Fort Worth area repre-
sented by Congressman James W^iiglit of Texas
work in the Convair jilant that j)roduces the
B-58. If he wants to be re-elected it is a good
thing for Mr. Wright to be known— as he is— as
the "Congressman from Convair." Tlie North
American plants which produce the B-70 affect
46
McNAMARA AND HIS ENEMIES
the whole Los Angeles area. Representatives
Edgar Hiestand and Clyde Doyle trom Calilornia
are not exactly skeptical about the B-70. The
electrical workers' union in Brooklyn is con-
cerned lest members be thrown out of w^ork by
the closing ot the Navy Yard there. So, unsur-
prisingly, is Representative Emanuel Cellcr. The
Griffis Air Base and Army Arsenal in Rome, New
York, are important sources ol jobs in a de-
pressed area. Sam Stratton, the Congressman
Irom that district, is one of the most intelligent
young men in the Congress. But he is at a little
less than his best when it comes to authorizing
Titan missiles that might swell the ^vork force
at Griffis. And so it goes, up and down the length
and breadth of the country.
In addition, there are the jjrivatc ties of Con-
gressmen and Senators with one or another of the
Services. Tw^o score legislators hold reserve com-
missions—six of them as generals— while hundreds
served in wartime. Senator Paid Douglas of
Illinois, a veteran of Peleliu and Okinawa gets
misty-eyed when the Marines come into question.
Representative James G. Fulton of Pennsylvania
is pushing the comedy of imderstatement to ex-
tremes when he says: "I have been a Navy man
so I may be a little prejudiced. " When he is not
asking that Polaris submarines be named after
vessels in the Confederate navy, Senator Strom
Thurmond of South Carolina, a Brigadier in the
Army Reserve, can be foimd fighting the Army's
legislative battles— notably on behalf of the Nike-
Zeus anti-missile missile.
Even more important are the vested interests
of senior legislators holding strategic committee
posts. Mr. Carl Vinson of Georgia, the chairman
of the House Armed Services committee, w-as
elected to the House in 1914. He has been chair-
man of the committee since its inception back
in 1947— and of the House Naval Affairs com-
mittee for fifteen years before that. He knows the
inside and outside of military budgeteering as
few men. But he also has a host of friends in the
Services. His post affords him immense patron-
age. It is not an accident that Georgia is so
heavily laden with bases that, as an Air Force
officer once put it, "one more would sink the
stale. "* Neither is it an accident that no one has
ever accused Mr. Vinson of being a wild-eved
advocate of change. He likes things ])retty miuh
as they are.
What lends special force to tlie staiulpaftcrs is
that they have available for use a ((jllcnion of
•Georgia lias c iglii Air bases, five Armv lorls. in
(iiifiing llic liiif^c i(il:'iilry (amp ol I'oi i IW iiiiiiij^, and
six other insiallaiif)ns.
talking points, half truths, empty gen^ra^lities,
and red herrings that would fill any arsenal in
the country. The so-called Great Debates of the
past have not tinned on square, or even soluble
issues. On the contrary they have raised such
questions as Security vs. Freedom of the Press;
Military Discipline vs. the Right of the Congress
to Know; Civilian vs. Military Authority; Mili-
tary vs. Budgetary Needs. These are precisely the
kind of questions that effective, free societies have
traditionally declined to settle— for the very good
reason that they cannot be finally settled. The
predictable result of such general debates as the
Admirals' revolt of 1949 is all that their pro-
moters coidd wish for: a heating up of tempers,
ending in a confirmation of things as they were.
The Great Debate on matters of principle, in
short, is the ultimate weapon of those who ^vould
stand pat with the old system.
A WHIFF OF THE GRAPESHOT
THE McNamara program, of course, poses
a severe challenge to the old system. By
its explicit choices on weapons systems and on
bases, it runs athw^art a wide variety of constit-
uency, contractors, and Service interests. In the
Congressional hearings, the expected resistance
came from the expected sources. Senator Thur-
mond, with encouragement from Army spokes-
men, proposed a larger appropriation for the
Nike-Zeus system. Congressman Stratton, argu-
ing that the Titan was an "invulnerable missile,"
moved for "an increase of S25 million to provide
for the restoration of the two Titan II missile
squadrons that were dropped out by the Depart-
ment." Congressman VV^right, in a special ap-
pearance as a witness before the House Armed
Services committee pressed for two more wings
of the B-58— "the best bomber we ha\e." On the
nuclear plane, one of its ])rime Congressional
advocates served up to General Thomas White,
Chief of Air Staff, a soft ball, obviouslv meant
to be batted out of the park. This was the
exchange:
Q. In other words, General, you don't think of
a nuclear powered plane as a "gimmick" . . . ?
A. No sir.
Still all matters of weapon choice posed scpiarc
issues, and Secretary McNamara could argue to
the fads. The great body ol the Congress was
obviously impressed by his jjresentations. Sena-
tor Richard Russell, veteran chairman of the
Senate Armed Set vices committee, told the Secre-
tary:
liV JOSEPH KRAFT
47
I have been listening to statements from oflicials
of the Department of Defense now for almost thirty
years . . . and 1 have never heard one that was
clearer, more definitive, and yet more comprehen-
sive than the statement that you have given to this
committee.
In committee, the Secretary won every trick
but one. The Congress was not convinced by his
arguments that by 1970 it would be safe to rely
entirely on missile strength, and it has voted
S500 million more than the Secretary sought for
B-52 bombers. Even that loss can be erased. The
Administration can, and probably will, refuse
to use the money.
WHiat the Secretary does, however, has not been
put into question nearly so much as the way he
does it. In particular, though tho military per
sonnel cannot voice the feeling openly, it is cleat
that they resent the intrusion of the Secretary
and his staff deep into the field of military plans.
One general, speaking with obvious sarcasm, told
a House committee:
We read every day about how fortunate we are
to have the civilian competency Avhich is being
brought into the government, and as a simple mili-
tary man I accept these profound decisions as being
made in great wisdom.
In similar vein another general declared he
was speaking "from the relatively limited point
of view of . . . an aviator of mOre than thirty-five
years' service in flying." The Army, Navy, Air
Force Journal, obviously sniping at the academic
background of McNamara's staff, has run a fable
demonstrating ^vhat would happen if a general
took over a university and began meddling in the
curriculiun. According to one very well-informed
Pentagon correspondent, Lloyd Norman of
Neivsiueek, the brass has been meeting outside
the building to keep clear of the civilian leader-
ship. "I wish," one philosophic general, s]3eaking
privately of bygone civilian bosses, candidly ac-
knowledges, "we had those dumb bastards back
again."
Such feelings provide the stuff of Great De-
bates, and preliminary maneuvers have already
given Secretary McNamara more than a whiff of
the grapeshot. Two cases in point are the affair
of the Rusk memo and the affair of the Lemnitzer
protest.
The affair of the Rusk memo began on Febru-
ary 15, when Secretary of State Rusk sent to
Secretary McNamara a memo setting out s^eneral
foreign-policy requirements for .American mili-
tary power. Among other th'ngs, he reiterated
the need to have a strong nuclear force available
for deterrent purposes, notably in Europe. Some
circles of the Air Forte, however, sensed in the
Administration emphasis on limited warfare a
trend that might have the effect of favoring the
Army and clipping Air Force wings. In the Rusk
memo they saw a chance to publicize these fears,
and win for their position the backing of the
European allies. On February 27, a leaked but
badly distorted version of the Rusk memo ap-
peared in the Washington Star. Among other
things, it implied that Secretary Rusk favored
abandonment of the nuclear deterrent in Europe.
The European allies immediately questioned the
State Department which denied the story, sa)ing
it exeinplified "an irresponsible and reckless atti-
tude." Secretary McNamara instituted an investi-
gation of the leak.
A great mass of circumstantial evidence-
though not clear proof— pointed to an Air Force
officer. He was relieved of his Pentagon duties
and posted to the field. "The military," as the
London Economist put it, "reacted with an old
tactic— overzealousness in carrying out orders."
Even on innocuous stories, news sources all over
the Pentagon began clamming up. The j^ress
immediately went to work on Secretary McNa-
mara. Stories critical of his information policies
appeared on the wire services and all the major
dailies. An Associated Press story of May 13, for
example, acknowledged the need to stop security
leaks, and then hauled out one of the press's
oldest and most sophistical generalizations:
There are many people who insist that not
enough information has been published. This
argument goes that if the American pulilic had
been informed of the nation's true military posture,
we would not now be short of airlift and sealift,
missiles and military manpower.
A grudging truce was called only when Secre-
tary McNamara, at a press conference on Mav 26,
issued a statement of information policy. This
was how the New York Herald Tribune reported
the event:
Secretary of Defense Robert S. McNamara shows
signs of coming out of his cocoon. . . . .After nearly
four months of isolation and silence, the emerging
chr\'salis displayed itself at a press conference
yesterday.
At the same time there occurred, or, more
accurately, there was dragged out, the Lemnitzer
affair. It turned on a decision by the Secretary
to vest i^rimary responsibility for research and
development in Space with the Air Force. The
directive was an extension of a previous order
giving the Air Force responsibility for space
boosters. It was worked \\\) by a study group
under General Counsel Vance, which included
48
McNAMARA AND HIS ENEMIES
three uniformed representatives ot the Services,
and which consulted extensively over a period
of seventeen days with Service and technical per-
sonnel in the Pentagon. A draft was sent to
Secretary McNamara on February 23. Next day
he sent it out for comment by March 2 to the
Service secretaries and chiefs, and to General
Lyman Lemnitzer, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs.
On the basis of the comments, notably General
Lemnitzer's, the Secretary revised the directive,
to assure that the Army and Navy would keep
the space projects presently in the works, and
that they would have the right to a hearing on
any future sjiacc projects they felt fitted specially
into their bailiwick. On March 8, the directive
was isstied.
Four days later, on the basis of what was ap-
parently a Navy leak, the Chicago Sun-Times
carried an accovmt of General Lemnitzer's com-
ments on the draft directive. It indicated cor-
rectly that he had voiced misgivings about the
content c^f the draft and about having to com-
ment so swiftly, and that he had indicated a
preference for consultation of the Joint Chiefs
as a body, rather than individually by Service.
But it did not indicate that his comments per-
tained to the draft, and that some had been acted
upon in the final directive. On the contrary, the
story gave the imj^ression that the comments ap-
plied to the directive, and that General Lemnit-
zer was questioning the authority of the
Secretary. The lead of the story said:
The chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff has
protested officially that the nation's leading mili-
tary men are being edged out of crucial military
decisions in the Kennedy Administration.
The Defense Department immediately issued
a corrective on the story. But the stir attracted
the attention of Overton Brooks, chairman of
the House Committee on Science and Astronau-
tics, who is worried and rightly, that the Air
Force may gobble up the civilian space agency.
Mr. Brooks called hearings.
That the directive in itself harbored no threat
to the civilian space agency was speedily made
clear. For the rest, the five days of hearings were
a forum of discontent. The Service Secretaries
were brought under pressure to show that they
were doing their stuff for their respective Services.
This, for example was one of the exchanges with
Navy Secretary John Connally:
Q. Am I correct in assuming the Navy resisted
this directive?
A. I would not use tlic word "resist," but we
resisted it.
One uniformed research chief had a chance to
stake the claim that, without Space, the scientific
talent in his Service would "atrophy on the vine."
The committee chairman noted "the difficulty in
obtaining the attendance at these hearings . . .
of the Secretary of Defense," as well as "a certain
foot-dragging in making available the military
witnesses. . . ." Besides finding an entree for
Congressional wit ("You should change the name
of the Air Force because there is no air in space").
Congressman James Fulton opened up a fetching
blind alley of infinite length. "You must define
to me where space begins," he told Deputy Secre-
tary Gilpatric. "Where does it begin?"
Only with the appearance of General Lemnit-
zer did the cackling cease— and then speedily.
He could not ask, he said, for "better working
relationships" with his civilian superiors in the
Department: "I am constantly consulted. I see
them on a daily basis and many times a day on
some occasions."
The issue of the directive, he settled in two
words. This was the exchange:
Q. Then I understand from what you say that
you are supporting the directive?
A. 1 am.
UNDULY SURPRISED?
ON balance it is clear that the Secretary
has come off reasonably well. He has
gained a good grasp of his subject. He has dem-
onstrated a rare strength in dealing with the
military. He has emerged virtually unscathed
from direct challenges to specific recommenda-
tions. On the larger political issues, he has at
least held his own.
At the same time, important weaknesses are
apparent. McNamara has been slow to consult
Congressional leaders before, rather than after
decisions are made known. He has been unduly
surprised by the political storms kicked up by
issues barren of real content. In dealing with
the press, he has not learned how to Hagertyize:
the technique of pouring out a flood of innocu-
ous information to the dual end of first keeping
reporters busy and next rendering them grateful
to the source of such abundant news. An artless
belief in the powers of persuasion seems to affect .
at least some of his staff. "If I know more than
anybody else," one aide has said, "then I'll be
able to imjjose my views."
All these problems may seem minor. But while
they remain unmastered, the Secretary will be
vulnerable. For the story of McNamara and his
enemies is only beginning.
Hurjycr's Magazine, August 1961
How to Play the
Unemployment-insurance Game
SETH LEVINE
Countless ivorkers are now using legal
loopholes to cheat the taxpayer — by phony
retirements, "off-the-record" wages,
and vacations at the government's expense.
IT I S a few minutes bcloi e eight on a bleak
winter morning in the New York shoe factory
of which I am part-OAvner and general manager.
The place is abnormally cjiiiet, except for the
occasional clank of massive steel elevator doors
opening and shutting. Men shuffle to the dress-
ing-rooms to change their clothes, exchange per-
functory greetings w'ith fellow ivorkers, and move
on to their machines. At eight o'clock when the
power switches arc thrown, the production line
will start up with a roar.
Suddenly a phone rings in the shoe-lasting
room. The foreman takes the call from Joe
Minati's wife. "He's got a hundred and one
fever," she says, "and won't be in today."
Joe is a roughing machine operator who works
midway on the production line. His job is to
buff the shoes' bottom surfaces, to which soles
are then cemented. He alone handles this job
on the eight hundred pairs the factory produces
daily. Feeding shoes to Joe on the production line
are twenty-five lasters and a dozen other workers.
They can keep going without him, but by quit-
ting time the racks will pile up from Joe's ma-
chine to the lasters' benches. If he is out for
more than a day, the lasters will have to be laid
off. On the other side of Joe's station, the oper-
ators are already hit by the log jam. Unfinished
work may keep them busy for an hour or two.
But with nothing funneling throvigh Joe's ma-
chine, they will be through at ten o'clock.
A fellow emplo)ee cannot be shifted over to
Joe's skilled job, for an inexperienced man or
one who is out of practice can ruin too many
shoes. However, the plant superintendent must
somehow keep our highly seasonal product mov-
ing to the retail stores on time. So he implores
tlic woikers down the line to co-operate antl
hang around until the luiion office opens and a
rej)laccmeni can be found.
Shortly alici ten o'clock a substitute rougher
—Henry Smith— apj^ears bearing a union pass.
But he is not ready to start work until two
hurdles are crossed— first, the matter of pay. As
a piece worker, Joe was getting 2.5 cents a pair
which amounts to about $2.50 an hour. Henry
wants to be paid on a time basis— a reasonable
recpiest, since a new man is bound to be slow
until he "works into" the particular machine,
product, and factory conditions. But the figure
50
THE U N E xM P L O Y M E N T - 1 N S U R A N C E GAME
he names— $3 an hour— seems a shght case of
extortion. The going rate in the industry is
$2.50. Since the superintendent is in a box he
agrees to pay $3 and lK)pes that Henry will not
be on the job long.
The second hurdle is more vexatious. Henry
is collecting unemployment insurance and wants
the factory to pay him "off the record," that is,
in cash. If the superintendent insists on putting
him on the payroll, he won't work. To Henry
it is a simple matter of arithmetic. As a skilled
worker, his normal weekly wage is a hundred dol-
lars or more. He is now collecting $50 a week in
unemployment insuiance. For each d^y that he
works he loses a quarter of his weekly benefits—
$12.50. A six-hour stint at our roughing machine
will give him a wage of $18, but his net will be
only about $14 after deductions for federal and
state income taxes. Social Security and disability
taxes, and the cost of carfare, lunch, and coffee
breaks. Subtracting the $12.50 lost from his un-
employment benefit, he figures he will make only
$1.50 by working for a day.
What is the plant superintendent to do? If he
threatens to rejjort the matter to the unemploy-
ment-insurance office, Henry will know this is an
empty bluff. Few employers will take the trouble
to lodge a complaint which may well invohe a
hearing and a wasted day away from the factQjy.
Ninety times out of a hundred, the "help-out's"
terms are accepted.
To collect unemployment-insurance benefits
while working is illegal, a plain case of fraud;
but very fe^v w'orkers see it this ^vay. For ex-
ample, many who are hired as permanent factory
employees expect to work the first week or t^\'o
"off the record. " Thus they continue to collect
benefits until they decide if they like the job
and qualify for it. Similarly, many workers who
retire collect both Social Security payments and
company or union-management pensions, as well
as unemployment-insurance benefits for the full
period allowed under law.
\Vhen production is low in seasonal industries.
Seth Levine is treasurer and production head
of a shoe manufacturing firm in New York and
chairman of the Union-Management Welfare Plan
in his industry. He was educated as an engineer
and economist at MIT and as a lawyer at George
Washington University Law School, worked in the
U. S. Bureau of Labor Statistics, and became Re-
search Director of the CIO Maritime Committee.
He has also been a registered CIO lobbyist, adviser
to the U. 5. Worker Delegate to the ILO, and an
economic consultant to industry and unions.
workers who are employed for only a few hours
a day commonly expect either to be paid oft the
record or at some future time when full produc-
tion resumes. Thus they can continue to collect
their unemployment benefits during the slack
season.
A really shocking loophole was provided in
1958 by a New York state law which was a
statutory restatement of earlier administrative
practice. This permits workers to collect un-
employment benefits while on paid vacation if—
for the week preceding or following it— they are
"less than substantially fully employed." ("Fully
employed" is defined as four days or more of
work in a gi\en week.) Thus a worker who is
laid off for two days, either before or after his
vacation, is eligible for tax-free unemployment
benefits for the two-week vacation period,
amounting possibly to SI 00.
News of this windfall ran through our factory
like wildfire early in June last year. We were
scheduled to close for vacation during the first
two weeks in July. Except for a handful of new-
comers, nearly all oiu" workers were entitled to
two weeks' paid vacation. Yet there w'as scarcely
one who did not spend the month of June de-
vising ways to be laid off for a few days before
or after vacation. As they figured it out, there
seemed to be no point in working the week be-
fore or after vacation for a mere SI 00, when, if
they w'ere laid off, they could get three weeks
of iniemployment benefits amounting to SI 35.
(At that time the maximum benefit in New York
was S45 per week. It has since been raised to
$50.) Figuring in the taxes and costs of going to
work, they made a profit of S50 with a third
week of vacation thro^vn in.
READY, WILLING,
AND able" ?
THIS kind of morality is no different than
what is euphemistically called "tax avoid-
ance " in the upper income brackets. It is a prod-
uct of the ethical climate in which the business-
man seeks to profit from a fire loss and the car
owner tries to make money out of a collision.
The worker too comes to think that he is "en-
titled" to "his check."
Although I am writing now as an employer,
I believe I can claim to liave more than a one-
sided view of the problem. I sj>ent ten years of
my life as a labor economist and editor and
was, in fact, an active labor lobbyist for the un-
emj)loyment-insurance laws thai are now on our
statute books. I am keenly antl personally aware
BY SETH LEVINE
51
of the value of unemployment insurance both in
alleviating the hardships of the man out of work
and sparing him the indignity of "relief."
I also believe that business— particularly the
small concern like mine— has been one of the
chief beneficiaries of unemployment insurance.
Without this economic stabilizer, our company,
for example, would no longer have flourishing
accounts in cities where many workers are un-
employed. It also insures a steady labor supply
for seasonal industries. My quarrel is not with
the system but with the distortion of its purpose.
The basic trouble is that workers and their
unions, government officials, and many business-
men have forgotten that this is an "Insurance"
system. "It is not 'relief'," says the Claimant's
Booklet of Information issued in New York.
"You do not have to prove you need it. It is
yours as a matter of right provided you meet
the conditions fixed by the law."
The key condition is this: "It is for people
who are unemployed, who regidarly work for a
living, who are ready, willing, and able to take
new jobs and who are actively looking for jobs."
All states have similar provisions. In my ex-
perience, however, most workers collecting bene-
fits are "ready, willing, and able" only if the
jobs they find are permanent, steady, and at
optimum rates of pay. I ha\'e \et to meet a man
who would rather work part-time for .S50 a week
at his regular hourly pay than collect $50 in
benefits.
I have been amazed by the skill of unschooled
and non-English-speaking workers in calculating
gross potential earnings minus taxes, traveling,
and other working costs, as compared with avail-
able unemployment benefits. Their prowess
would do credit to a junior accountant.
"You are expected to look for a job on your
own and keep a record of all your job-finding
efforts, including names and addresses of em-
ployers to whom you have applied, dates of ap-
plication, and results; and a record of other
efforts such as response to ad\ertisements, visits
to union halls, etc., and results," says the Claim-
ant's Booklet. This all-important "search for
work" requirement is, in practice, a dead letter.
Dozens of claimants have told me that the un-
employment office makes only the most peifunc-
tory inquiries about their job-finding efforts. Us-
ually, a mere visit to the union hall suffices. It
is a curious fact that our company, which is well
known for steady employment and growth,
rarely receives a call from the many unemployed
at the union hall. The only job seekers who ap-
pear at our door are newcomers— usually immi-
grants from Italy or the West Indies or refugees
from Central and Eastern Europe.
In New Jersey, the law now provides that an
unemployed worker need not actively seek work
in order to collect benefits if he is temporarily
laid off for a period of four weeks or less. An-
other proviso of the New Jersey law permits the
State Director to modify the active "search for
work" requirement if in his judgment economic
conditions warrant it. In effect, this encourages
an unemployed worker to subsist on his benefit
checks rather than seek temporary employment,
and to bide his time when recession strikes
rather than press his search for work.
The dismal truth seems to be that no one
today believes it is better to earn a dollar than
to collect one. Work is only preferable if it pays
twice as well.
In a recent case, for instance, a referee ruled
that our trimming cutters could refuse work
which they had often performed in the past at
their regular rate of $3.31 an hour and still
collect unemployment insurance because "the
taking of inventory was not a function within
the scope of the duties of the trimming cutters.
They were not hired with the understanding
that they would be required to execute such
work. The collective-bargaining agreement did
not impose upon them the duty to perform this
task."
Then, there was the matter of a telejjhonc-
operator-receptionist with whom our company
decided to part. We were notified that she was
collecting unemployment insinance but we as-
sumed it would last only a week or two. How-
ever, the weeks dragged on and to our surprise
she still had no job. This was strange, as she was
adept at the board, pretty, sociable— an alto-
52
THE UNEMPLOYIVIENT-INSURANCE GAME
gether employable receptionist. Later her friends
told me that she "had fixed up her apartment"
while on benefits by listing herself as a recep-
tionist-shoe-model. She had, it is true, on rare
occasions displayed a new shoe in our showroom,
though this was hardly her job. She put it this
way herself: "I've been working for several years.
Why shouldn't I collect?"
This is a familiar kind of reasoning. One
hears it among businessmen, workers, profes-
sional people, or housewives. But the fact is that
unemployment insurance is intended as com-
pensation for a real loss according to the terms
of a prior bargain. It is not a bonus for years
of steady work. Nor— as some workers seem to
think— was unemployment insur.-ince conceived
as an income supplement. This notion unfor-
tunately has become widespread.
For example, we normally employ three
stitchers at a wage of about 3130 each or a total
of $390. When business is slack, we have only
an aggregate of $260 worth of stitching work per
week. There is a share-the-work clause in our
union-management contract. But our stitchers
are not willing to continue work for .$86.67 each.
Instead, they expect to rotate^ with one of the
three out on unemployment insurance each week.
By this arrangement, a man works two weeks at
$130 per week, and then collects $50 unemploy-
ment insurance which is tax-free. His take for
three weeks is the ec^uivalent of about $320 in
wages as compared to only $260 under a share-
the-work plan.
What harm has been done? Eventually, of
course, someone must pay the bill. When un-
warranted unemployment-insurance benefits are
collected, the extra tax burden falls solely on the
employer.
Except for Alaska, every state in the Union ties
the individual employer's tax rate to the recent
level of unemployment among his workers. In
New York, which is typical, the rate varies in
relation to such factors as benefits paid to former
workers, the employer's total payroll, and the
adequacy of reserves in the state fund. An in-
dividual company's tax rate may range from
nothing to 3.2 per cent of the payroll.
To be specific, last year our business paid
$20,660 in unemployment-insurance taxes. We
have two hundred employees and thus our rate
was just over $100 per man. To meet the cur-
rent unemployment crisis, the Congress promptly
approved President Kennedy's jjroposal to ex-
tend unemployment benefits (or as long as an
additional thirteen weeks. These benefits will
be financed by an additional tax of O.i per cent.
As a result, my company's unemployment-in-
surance tax bill will rise to $23,000 this year,
which for us is a substantial sum, amounting to
an added cost of over 6.5 cents per man-hour.
Half of my own working year is spent in trying
to save a quarter of a cent here and there in
labor costs.
Across the country during the past months un-
employment covered by state insurance has
varied between 3.2 million and 3.4 million. This
is one million above the 1960 figure. Even more
disturbing is the fact that long-term unemploy-
ment is up 65 per cent. The action taken by
Congress was designed to help workers in de-
pressed areas, and those in industries severely
curtailed by automation and technological
change. There can be no doubt that work is
being desperately sought by millions of bread-
winners—auto workers in Detroit, steelworkers
in Pittsburgh, ore miners in Minnesota, coal
miners in West Virginia, textile workers in New
England and the South.
It is to safeguard the rights of these victims
of recession and automation, to protect the sol-
vency of state funds, and to give business a
chance to survive the ever-increasing costs of
production that the widespread abuses of the un-
employment-insurance systems must be stopped.
JOBS INSTEAD OF BENEFITS
THIS problem is difficult to attack, for the
lax practices I have described are common-
place across the country. The following ideas
might well be explored:
1. Joint Tax Liability. The unemployment-
insurance tax is now paid solely by the employer,
unlike Social Security and in some states dis-
ability insurance, to which both employers and
workers contribute. Should workers participate
in the financing, not of past, but at least of fu-
ture improvements in unemployment-insurance
benefits? Would this make the worker more
aware of the cost of financing benefits and of
the fact that it is an insurance system?
2. Revitalized State Employment Services. In
the last analysis, jobs and not benefits are what
most workers want, and what the economy needs.
Yet far too little money and effort are spent in
job finding. State Employment Services should
have more placement officers canvassing local fac-
tories and offices. They should survey the types
of workers needetl by different establishments,
build a reference file of possible job openings
for the unemployed, and educate employers.
Most businessmen regard the State Employment
BY SETH LEVINE
53
Service merely as a source of unskilled labor.
I have never been visited by a rejjresentative
of the State Employment Service seeking to place
unemployed workers. However, I have been
visited by a representative from the New York
City Welfare Department, asking us to hire
workers from the relief rolls. Why not an active,
proselytizing State Employment Service?
3. Assistance for Small Business. A big cor-
poration can afford a full-time expert to mini-
mize its imemployment-insurance tax burden
and to police the erroneous or dishonest collec-
tion of benefits. But a small employer is a babe
in the woods. I, for instance, have worked for
the U.S. Department of Labor and the national
CIO. Yet I have committed costly blunders as,
for example, a needless charge amouiuing to
hundreds of dollars because we gave oral rather
than written instructions for a two-day shutdown
to take inventory. The state is willing to answer
inquiries but does not proffer help.
In contrast, our workmen's-compensation-in-
surance carrier regularly sends a safety engineer
to visit our plant. He reviews the nature and
cause of accidents and gives valuable advice on
prevention. The State Employment Ser\icc
should likewise help small companies to hold
their unemjiloyment-insinance costs in check.
4. Retraining and Relocation for the Chron-
ically Unemployed. One hears nuich about re-
lief for the chronically unemployed, but little
talk of cures. The fact is that when a worker is
unemployed for as long as twenty-six weeks, he
will probably never again find a job in his cus-
tomary trade or industry, or in the same occupa-
tion in his home locality.
What is being done to retrain (n relocate
such workers? Virtually nothing. Indeed, the
policy of the typical State Employment Service
encourages the worker to refuse all employment
that is not fully equivalent to his last job. This
is a "good cause" for refusing a job; as is "an
unreasonable distance from home; or if travel
to and from the place of employment costs sub-
stantially more than travel to your last job,
unless the expense is j^rovided for."
Such restrictions against forced employment
were born of a legitimate desire to prevent the
unemployment-insurance system from destroying
labor standards and from undermining the vi-
tality of the economy. But has their validity
been checked against present-day circumstances?
Are ^\e paying enough attention to the re-em-
ploNuient of the luicmployed, or is our attention
exclusi\el) foctiscd on compensation for the
losses restdting from unemployment?
An immediate example which might be widely
studied is the path bla/ed by the Commonwealth
of Massachusetts. In 1958, its unemployment-
insurance law was amended to provide eighteen
weeks of benefits to unemployed workers attend-
ing \'ocational schools "as a means of realizing
employment." The cost is charged against the
general fund. This plan might well serve as a
model for all state legislatures and I woidd like
to see it widely copied.
The Massachusetts j^lan was given national
recognition in President Kennedy's June 13th
message to Congress proposing extensions in im-
emjiloyment-insurance coverage and benefits.
Among other things the President recommended
that benefits be made available to workers re-
training for new occupations. This is a sensible
and practical idea and I hope this phase of the
President's recommendation will be adopted
promj)tly by the Congress.
Other parts of the program would make per-
manent the current temporary extension of un-
employment benefits to as much as thirty-nine
weeks, would induce stales to raise the level of
unemplo)mcnt benefits, and would bring thice
million new workers under coverage.
Financing the President's program would re-
Cjuire a substantial increase in j>ayroll taxes. For
examjjle, I estimate that, uniler his draft bill,
my company's unemj)lo)inent-insurance tax
woidd rise over the next decade from its current
level of $20,660 per atmum to over |35,000. This
is no small burden for the average employer.
To prevent our unemj^loyment-insurance sys-
tem from becoming an intolerable economic
buiden, and to maintain its social usefulness,
surely it is imperati\'e that we attack the cor-
rosive and wasteful jiractices which now under-
mine its high purpose.
Harper's Magazine, August 1961
The Man Who
Doubted
A Story by JACK COPE
Drawings by Frederick E. Banbery
HE C A M E up out of the mist at dusk to-
ward the veranda steps. The farmer was
scraping the mud off his boots on a sharp iron
scraper and he turned slowly hearing the soft
footsteps on the wet ground. As their eyes met,
tlic Zuhi raised his arm in a grand and gaunt
sahitc. "Inkosana!"
His greatcoat was an ancient military khaki
darkened with grease and ending in tatters
around his bare calves, and in his left hand he
trailed a knobkerrie and a stick, as well as a small
branch of wild olive with faded didl-green leaves.
At his side, carrying a small blanket bundle was
a barefooted boy who looked enough like him
to be unmistakably his son. He did not speak
again but waited in a courteous silence until the
white man should either recognize him or ask
who he was.
He was so striking in all the singleness of his
dignity, stripped down by illness and poverty
and anxiety to the last degree, that the farmer
felt a keen pang of sympathy, searching the
ravaged face for recognition. They were of the
same age and height, both tall graceful men, but
the black one looked doubly aged beside the
ruddy weathered features of the other.
Glancing between father and son the farmer
found his clue suddenly, and out of the shadow
of thirty years a face came back to him of a hand-
some youth. "Ha, it is you. Ma tan, I see!"
The Zulu raised his head and a quick and
grateful smile bloomed on him. His white teeth
shone and the heavy lines were loosened for a
moment. "Inkosana, you arc one who seldom
makes a mistake."
"1 wouldn't say that."
"You have grown more like your father, and
his voice speaks again in you. But I see that you
carry a scar."
The white man ran his fingers over a deep scar
Irom the corner of his eye and disappearing in
his hair. "The iron of a cannon hit me, in the
war. They nearly buried me."
"Instead, you buried your enemies," Matan
said. No greater mark of honor could a man bear
than the wound of battle on his face.
"I wouldn't say that," the farmer repeated.
"No, but you are ill and cold. Go and warm
yourself and get some food. Then we can speak
together."
"First 1 will tell you, Inkosana, that I have
come to fetch home my father."
"How's that?" the farmer asked quietly, hid-
ing his surprise. "Your father has lain buried
here for thirty years."
"I have come for his spirit."
They both were aware that this opened up be-
tween them such imponderable questions that
they said nothing for a few moments until with
another grave salute Matan went off, with his
son, to the compound of the farm laborers.
After the evening meal the farmer's wife was
in the kitchen storeroom packing eggs for market.
She worked quickly filling the cardboard cartons
while a young black woman in a scarlet head-
cloth and blue pinny deftly washed and dried
any that were marked. Two incandescent lamps
hissed steadily and shed a strong white light.
The storeroom beams were hung with hams and
sides of smoked bacon, and phalanxes of jams
and bottled preserves were ranged along the
shelves. The women talked softly while they
worked and sometimes laughed.
The farmer came in to ask about some ac-
counts and at the same time Matan appeared
at the kitchen door. He had left his sticks
but still held the branch of wild olive. In the
strong light his face was like a deeply carved rock
and the feverish black eyes alone betrayed him.
The small boy came behind him, peering round
the skirts of his ragged coat.
"Come inside, Matan," the farmer said, and
turning to his wife: "This is the man."
The Zulu greeted her in the same majestic
way and she answered, "San'bona."
"San'bona," said the black maid and went on
with her work.
Matan came closer into the lamplight and
squatted down on his hams in a ceremonial man-
ner. The farmer asked where he lived and how
were his family and at this he looked troubled.
55
several times passing his hand o\ er his eyes. He
had lived in many places since he had left the
Thorn Country. Now he had found a place again
in the umSuluzi valley and had a garden to cul-
tivate but no oxen yet and no plow.
"And your family?" the farmer repeated, think-
ing of his own three children tucked safe in their
beds and his eldest son away for the first term
at boarding school. When he glanced again at
Matan he sensed a quiver on the rigid lips and
he was appalled to see that tears had come to the
sunken, burning eyes.
"This is my family," the Zulu said, reaching
out and touching his son with a bony finger.
"All the others I have lost. Two sons and a
daughter I lost. My wife I lost. But this one
is left to me and now I have a place again and
across the umSuIuzi stream I can see where my
father's kraal stood."
"Oh, so you are on Dune's?"
"I am on Dune's."
"Why did you not come to me? I would give
you a place. You may build again where your
father's huts were and plow his old lands. All
those you gave up when you left."
Matan thought over his answer and after clear-
ing his throat he said: "I am not ready. Now it
is this that my heart tells me to say. When I had
come to manhood and we were of an age my
father worked for yours."
"I remember Makofin well. I remember the
accident. I went to call the doctor and we rode
out on our horses in the night."
"Inkosana, it was the long red wagon that cut
him nearly in two. I was walking behind and
my father carried the whip. He slipped as he
put one foot on the wagon pole and he fell under
the wheels. The oxen pulled the wagon over him
with a load of corn and I dragged him out from
under the Avheels— my father. He was dying. I
could see."
"He did not cry out."
"In the night he died. Our people buried him
here. Inkosana, child of your father, think of
Jack Cope grew up on a farm in Natal, South
Africa, and became a newspaperman in Cape Town.
His three novels have been published in England,
and his collection of short stories carries the title
of his first story published in this magazine, "The
Tame Ox." His work is known all over Europe and
in 1960 he was elected a Life Fellow of the Interna-
tional Institute of Arts and Letters. He edits South
Africa's only English-language literary magazine,
"Contrast," and has completed his fourth novel,
"Dream Smoke."
56
THE MAN WHO DOUBTED
mine too. He has been lying here for thirty
years under the cold trees of the forest, in this
cold country. He has been alone. Where this
red wagon called Satan is working and its trek-
cattle that killed my father, I cannot stay. I
went off and 1 have been everywhere. 1 have
been to the Gold Mines, I worked in the sugar
cane. I married and found a place with the
Ntulis but wherever I have gone evil followed.
"Evil has followed me," he said again hollowly
after a long pause.
"A son was born and I was glad. Then again,
another son. I did not believe it. I thought the
evil had left me. My first-born withered and
shriveled to a stick and he died. Then I believed
it again. I took up my goods and drove my cattle
away and always the evil has followed me. . . .
No, why tell you all that happened? Now I am
left with this stripling—"
He looked round for the boy and at last
caught sight of him through the kitchen door
doing a lively little dance in front of the stove.
He was a mischievous boy, sprightly and difficult
to handle. Often he had to be given a cuff on the
head and then tears burst from his eyes. But a
moment later he was dancing and singing again.
The father turned away with a shrug and then,
as if by an afterthought, he said: "So then I have
come to bring my father home."
The two white people waited in a strained way
but the black girl gazed at him goggle-eyed. He
had expected it, but now it devoured his insides.
He went on, stumbling somewhat over his words,
to say he had been to one who knew of these
things. The man had him beat the ground, and
he had thrown bones. He was a witch doctor—
isangoma. He said the evil had been sent by
Makofin, father of Matan, because he lay two
days' journey away, alone in the cold drizzling
trees; two days from his home which was in the
Thorn Country. There he had owned cattle and
grown corn and the sun was hot on his body.
The witch doctor had cooked medicine and
dipped the leaves of a branch into his medicine
pot. He had said: "Watch one night by the
grave." Makofin's ghost would climb out of the
grave, he had said, and settle in the leaves of the
branch. The son must then carry the ghost home
to the Thorn Country in silence, unbroken si-
lence, and bury it there. Peace would come at
last to him. One word spoken by him during this
journey home would send the ghost crying back
to its cold grave.
He drew out the branch of wild olive from
under his coat and raising it he said: "On this
I will take my father home."
The farmer and his wife glanced at each other
but the maid flung up her hands with a cry of
fear and darted out of the room. He took this
sign from her without emotion and scarcely
moved his head. Perhaps in his blood this sign
of absolute belief worked profoundly, but it was
with the other two that he was concerned as he
put down the branch and tried to compose him-
self.
He did not look up at them, not because they
might despise the witch doctors or that he feared
their disbelief. His great terror lay in his own
doubt. He took out his snuffbox and his hands
shook as he uncorked it and put in his hand a
small heap of snuff. Then, clearing his throat
and swallowing, he found the calm he needed to
state the point of his visit:
Perhaps it was beyond a man to make a long
journey without uttering a word. His lips coidd
open in his sleep, or without thinking he might
say something to a passer-by or to his son who
would not remember always to speak correctly.
If a truck were driving to the Thorn Country
... in short, if the farmer could take him home
with his father's shadow and his son, the three
of them, it would be well with them.
He waited for the reply, greatly perturbed,
and took his time with another pinch of snuff.
He could hear his boy in the other room, singing
to himself, while the two spoke low in their own
language. Then the woman asked: "Matan, did
you pay the isangoma?"
"It is the custom," he mumbled as if angry at
such a question.
"What did you pay him?"
"A cow," he said shortly, and then added: "It
was my last cow."
"And do you really believe in this?"
It was the question that crawled under his
skin, that pestered and devoured him, and with
a sound like a groan he threw back his head.
"Inkosazana, what else can I do?"
"I don't know. I did not know your father as
my husband did, but would his soul follow you
STORY BY JACK COPE
57
with evil? Would you wish evil on your own
son?"
"Let it be!" he said wildly.
She was on the point of saying more, so cool
in her knowledge and good will that she would
drive a hole into his heart if only to enlighten
him. But the man put a hand on her arm to
quiet her. "Matan, I am not going to the Thorn
Country. My truck is broken down; it's at the
garage to be repaired. But you can go with the
wagon in the morning and from the crossroads
the milk truck will take you to the railway. And
so you can ride in the train down to the Thorns
and get home in one day."
The Zulu averted his face without a word. He
had only a few shillings knotted in a cloth and
the rail fare would leave him penniless. His son
had come to the door and heard what the plan
was, and he skipped delightedly at the thought
of a ride in the milk truck and in a train, marvels
he had never enjoyed. The father stood up
stiffly and saluted the white people. He went out
leaning one hand on the child's shoulder and
with the other carrying the bough from which
he had not parted since he left home.
"What can you do with them?" the woman
said. "Good heavens— the idea!"
"You know, I had an eerie feeling always at
Makofin's grave. I can remember them burying
him sewn all crouched up in a blanket, and they
put in some food and pots and a knobkerrie and
assagai to see him on his way. Makofin was a
hell-fire fighting man and the others were scared
enough of him alive but ten times more scared
of him dead. The boys are going to be glad
about Matan taking the old man's ghost home.
They never liked the grave down in the forest."
"He looks so ill," she said. "Fierce but some-
how tortured, eh? Worried to death."
He merely glanced at her and shrugged. His
way with the Zulus was to get along as well as
he could without bumping headlong into them
on dangerous ground, and he did not push things
down their throats. It had been silly of her, he
thought, to ask that question. How could you
ask a man whether he really believed in a thing
that went to the center of his life? "About this
account with the vet . . ." he began.
MATAN walked down in the dark from
the house of the white people and he still
leaned one hand on his child. A moon was slid-
ing in and out of the clouds and the wind blew
cold and damp. Passing the open shed, he saw
the wagon. The farm used tractors and motor
vehicles now, but they kept the old trek-wagon
standing there with its heavy iron-ringed pole
slung up as if ready to roll out again on its fatal
way. Ever since it had cut his father almost in
two it had been called Satan and the men had
a kind of awe for it. He went past, looking fear-
fully into the dark mouth of the shed, and he
said nothing but listened to the chatter of the
boy about the tasty food he had been given
in the kitchen.
In the compound Matan joined the ring of
men sitting around the fire. He was of their
clan and they were all tied by ancient blood
bonds one to another, yet he had noticed how
his entry had put a hush on them. They offered
him food and went on dipping their clean fin-
gers in the black iron cooking pots, but they
were like chickens when a hawk has flown over.
The little boy edged close to a pot and soon he
was eating ravenously, scooping out hot lumps
of tasty steamed corn and potatoes and sweet
pumpkin.
Matan ate nothing and he did not speak.
Seated on a polished wood block he leaned
toward the leaping flames of the fire. He had
tried to conceal as much as possible the wild-
olive branch and had it under the folds of his
coat tails. Presently he opened his coat and bared
his bony chest to the heat. He had a skin amulet
hanging at his throat by a blackened string and
a medicine horn from some small antelope stuck
as an earring through the lobe of one ear, and
with his forbidding, deep-furrowed face shining
like oiled wood, he looked to the others hardly
a man at all, but a shadowing of death itself.
Some of the men got up and went out, and from
under his heavy brow he shot them wild, des-
perate glances.
He waited a little longer, reluctant to go down
into the night and the forest, and occasionally
he looked at his son still busy at the cooking pot.
When the boy could no longer force another
mouthful down his throat but sat back with his
stomach drum-tight, Matan told him sharply to
find a place among the boys and go to sleep. He
went outside and came back with his hands and
small shining face wet from a good rinsing at the
tap. He was thrown a few clean grain bags with
which he made himself a bed on the clay floor
and soon lay rolled from head to foot like a small
mummy in his blanket.
Suppressing a sigh, Matan got up and but-
toned his greatcoat close about him. He armed
himself with his stick and knobkerrie. The
others pretended not to notice his going. By
beaten footpaths he picked a way past cornlands
and large fields standing in young kale and tur-
58
HILARY CORKE
A PSYCHIATRIST'S SONG
I HELP them out, I help them out,
All those whose exits are in doubt
From the seli-extruded spirals
Ot their own ingrowing morals—
Those whose paths are set with shadows
And the snakes breed in their meadows
And the thoughtweed binds the gate,
I de-infest their whole estate:
And those whose skiffs capsize at sea
And cannot swim, their legs not Free,
But in confusion look to drown,
I hook them out and rub them down.
Old gentlemen who can't stop j)inching
Whatever bottom looks like flinching,
I teach them how to slow that car
And put a handbrake on desire:
And couples whose sex is in the head
And therefore will not go to bed
From a mistaken sense of sin,
I help them in, I help them in.
A fig for imaginary evils:
I fight against the real devils
Of hashed-up circuits, jammcd-down switches
And telegraph poles in the ditches.
These bolt the doors and windows; then
The creeping damps and rots begin.
The worm grows wily in the wall
And down the family portraits fall;
I am the hero with the axe
Who thrusts the fresh air through the cracks;
I sweep the flues, I scour the drains
And free the gutters to the rains:
While those who stumble in the Avide
W^ithout-door tempest, void of pride,
Uiitrousered, why, I fetch galo'hes
And plastic hats, and mackintoshes.
All their ills away I take:
Then why does my own sf)r(? head ache?
Look liow the fish kajj Id ihc lake!
Then why does my own sore hc;i(l ache?
nips for winter cattle feed, the ground falling all
the while toward the fringe of trees. The moon
gave a vagtie sense of light in the sky, but once
inside the trees the darkness became so close that
it seemed he had to push his way through it.
Often he missed the path, groping a pace at a
time and stumbling on roots or feeling suddenly
the rasp of a creeper round his neck.
He knew where the grave was and approaching
it he crept even slower. His eyes were strained
open to catch the least hint of light. A rustle
went faintly through the upper foliage and from
the occasional touches of cold on his face he
knew a fine rain had started. Big drops fell with
a lone splash from the trees on his head or down
his neck. Then he was at the grave, sensing the
hollowness of the dark clearing around him. He
was confused at hearing loud noises, only they
were in his head and the forest was quiet save
for the slow shudder of drops on the leaves.
He put his sticks and the olive branch
under one arm and, with some difficulty over
the trembling of his hands, he managed to
strike a match. For a moment the flare of light
chased away shadows into the thicket, and fell
on the pyramid of earth and stones under which
his father lay buried. Before the match flickered
out he saw the green moss and grass on the gra\e
motmd and the long trailing beards of lichen
drooping from the trees; the ring of stones sur-
rounding the base of the mound was half-btiried
in green mold. A wet and dreary and silent
place, and any spirit lying drowned and bitter
under the tree roots would writhe in its suffo-
cation. If it were true! It was starting in him
again; at the foot of his father's grave itself the
doubt came at him and a cold band pressed
round his forehead and temples.
He stood for a while and took hold on himself.
He must not dare think such thoughts. He must
follow the witch doctor to the letter— it was his
last resort. What else could he do? Ai! With a
start he remembered he had used those same
words to the white woman. She had asked if
he believed. Womanlike, she had put her finger
in the eye of his sore. What if he did doubt? He
must keep to the finest hair of the isangoma's in-
structions and, provided the truth lay there,
then all must be well. He would regain his
health, cattle again would stand in his kraal, and
his child grow up like a cornstalk to the sun.
And if the white people were right? Could there
be two truths?
He tried to heave himseli up out of the claw-
ing blackness, straightened his back, and raised
his head. "Father, I am here," he said. His breast
:
at once ielt calmer, and he began to make prepa-
rations for the watch through the night. He
edged forward until his sandal touched the
stones of the grave; then he struck one more
match and, keeping it alight in his cupped hand,
made his way to the nearest tree. There he
settled himself with his back to the moss-covered
roots and, tucking his coat as well as possible
around his knees, he took the olive branch in one
hand. A cold drop coursed down his forehead
and nose. It was no longer raining and he found
to his dread that he was in a heavy sweat.
He sighed and muttered to himself. He would
feel better if something came to share his watch,
a bushbuck or perhaps an ox or even a hare. But
it was a lonely place and a little-used path. Cattle
kept the track open and maybe at night the
small denizens of the trees would dart along it
frightened by the coughing of a leopard. He
would welcome a leopard.
The air seemed to become warmer and then
the clouds opened and moonlight came filtering
down through the treetops into the clearing. He
coidd make out the shape of the grave mound
and at a distance the pale streaks against the
black which he knew, though they seemed to
be moving, were tree trunks. He had to close
his eyes to escape the appearance that the trees
were moving about. After some time had passed
he heard the growl of thunder and he thought
he understood that strange wave of warmth and
closeness that was hammering against his chest
as if with soft fists.
Cold, rain— rain and cold, did it never stop
here in the thin high veld? "My father, I have
left you a long while," he said, with his voice
croaking. An answer came in another rumble of
thunder. He waited, thinking of his father, and
he began speaking to him. "My father, Makofin,
son of Poli, why have you come as a thief and
taken everything from me? It was not so before.
You were a fighting man and born of great blood
and your word was respected. Did they leave
you too little food for your journey and have
you eaten grasshoppers on the bare hill? My
father, if you kill me and my last son, who will
be left to pray and comfort you— what home will
you return to when you journey up from there
below to see the sun again?"
He spoke in the form of the old prayers but
in his blood was the feeling that he should be
given some sign, and because no sign came he
was left hollow and beaten. Flashes of lightning
were flickering palely among the trees and the
thunder groaned nearer, thudding on the ground
as if some great beast were on the trail.
A STORY BY JACK COPE 59
The wind came tearing down with a great roar
into the forest and thunder ripped and boomed
in the sky striking trees and hilltops while the
rain fell in huge dark waves. Gullies of water
poured and washed against him and he crouched
more into himself, wet and shivering and almost
unconscious of his purpose in being there.
TH E rain passed and the wind died and
silence and darkness came back over the
forest. He thought of his father's ghost in the
underworld shivering at an empty pot and a
dead fire while the water from the cold earth
dripped muddily over him. Alone he was too,
and malignant, and his eyes glaring red like
those of a man wild with death or sorrow.
The vision was so clear and striking to his
inner mind that he thought it a dream and he
had been asleep or was still sleeping. The branch
of wild olive seemed to be moving in his hand
and with a thrill of horror he dropped it, then
grabbed at it, feeling about in the dark in case
it should be snatched away. When he had seized
it again with a shaking hand he was sure that it
moved of its own and so great a desire filled him
to run for his life that his legs began twitching
like a dog in its hunting dreams. Closing his
eyes, he forced his head and back against the
tree until his muscles stopped jerking and he
could no longer feel any movement, not in his
legs nor in the twig nor the hand that held it.
He opened his eyes vaguely and was staring
upwards. There was light, faint light. The moon
had come through and was dropping a dim ray
among the still treetops. Here and there was
the mere phantom of a tree trunk. Slowly he
searched into the cave of the clearing and tlien
fixed on a place above the grave. He stared for
a long time, not believing his senses, blinked
slowly and looked again. Over the grave stood
a large white shape, there was no mistake. And
as the moon ran out of the clouds and its light
seeped down to the earth the shape took clearer
form and he could see two dark hollows where
it would have eyes.
"Makofin, son of Poli," he grated out, though
his lips and tongue were almost paralyzed. "Ha!
do you come to turn your son's bones to water!
Come with me home to the umSuIuzi."
He could now see two strange shapes like great
horns rising above it and in a swaying movement
the head shook. A cry came from Matan's throat.
He tried to struggle to his feet, rolled to one
side and fell. His body shivered all over and a
foam hissed from his mouth and nostrils.
The moon was covered by a dark cloud bank
60
THE MAN WHO DOUBTED
and complete darkness crept over the veld and
into every crevice of the dripping forest. Far
down at the foot of a tall tree the black man lay
fighting for breath and oblivious of everything.
The owls flew down from their roost in a ham-
merkop's nest, a leopard made its coughing grunt
as it padded along the trail. A rustling and
crashing sounded among the trees, heavy beating
of hooves, and then the return of silence.
Still the man lay on his side and ants began
to crawl on him. At the first lightening of the
sky he stirred and tried to open his eyes. He
felt blinded, scratched and clawed at his face
and then screamed out. His face was covered
with ants. He rolled and whipped over on the
grass like an eel and by brushing and beating at
his face with his coat sleeves he cleaned himself
and then began to kill off and shake the ants
out of his coat. His limbs felt weak and he was
imnerved in every fiber of his body. But in spite
of his dread of the place he raised his hand as
steadily as he could and said: "Makofin, son of
Poli, I came in peace. Now you too, be no thief.
To me, your son, give back peace." He gathered
up his sticks and, with one fearful glance at it,
took up also the wild-olive branch.
Then he set ofi^ to return to the compound, but
walked slowly like an old man. Passing beyond
the grave, he noticed in the turf the hoofprints
of an ox. He leaned heavily on his stick, pausing
there for some moments, deeply shocked, and all
his doubts came back with a new agony. When
had the ox stood there— during the night, or
before? There was water in one of the hoofmarks.
His head was nodding as with an illness when he
started again, and at sunrise he arrived back at
the compound.
MAT A N crouched like some old tree trunk
among the milk cans on the wagon. It
seemed that in contrast to his gloom and silence
and the awe he inspired in the other farm work-
ers, the small boy had become all the more
sprightly. He danced and skipped alongside the
cart, threw stones at a flock of starlings, whistled
gaily or sang to himself at every step. 1 'ie farm
workers kept wide of the man whom tliey be-
lieved to be carrying the ghost of his father but
the boy had almost taken command now that
he had the task of guiding him home. At the
crossroads, Matan transferred in silence to the
heavy milk truck while loud explanations were
made and shouts of ama/cment exchanged with
the loading ( rcw. Then the truck started off; the
boy shrilled and laughed and opened his mouth
to feel the roar of wind in his ciieeks.
At the railhead the child made all the explana-
tions while his father fumbled open his damp
cloth and handed over one by one the shillings
and florins to pay the fare. Then, aboard the
train, the boy dashed up and down the corridors,
hung out on the balcony rails, and scrambled
over people's feet in the crowded compartment
where his father sat, stony and silent with lips
sewn together in a terrible bitterness. In a shrill
voice the boy explained that the olive branch
had been doctored and on it was roosting none
other than the ghost of his grandfather.
With one accord the passengers yelled out and
made a concerted dash to get out at the door,
struggling and cursing and knocking the child
over in their hurry to escape. When the last of
them had disappeared, there, lying in the middle
of the floor, was a silver sixpence. The boy
picked it up with a chirp of pleasure and ran
after the gabbling passengers. He tossed it in
the air and caught it, shouting: "Who lost this?
Who lost this?" They were too angry or scared
to notice him and so he tied it into a ragged
corner of his vest.
The passengers complained about the ghost
and some minutes later the ticket examiner came
to restore order. "You can't travel with a ghost,"
he said to Matan and was answered by a glimmer
of anger from eyes so siniken and reddened that
even he was taken aback.
"I'm not sure, you may need another ticket
for the spook," he said. And Matan, seeing the
smile of contempt, tinned away his face to hide
his rage and dismay. "Why don't you answer?"
"He is my father and he has lost his voice,"
the boy said.
"Well, he'll have to chuck the ghost out of
the window or ride on the balcony. I can't have
the corridor blocked with passengers."
Matan rose unsteadily and made his way out
along the corridor and to the balcony, still grip-
ping his sticks and bundle and his olive bough.
The other passengers hurried past or pretended
not to see the thin and haggard man keeping his
balance precariously as the train jolted and
swayed on the curves and gradients.
There he stayed until the train pulled in at
the station of Colenso alongside the broad
muddy Tugela River with the great water towers
and smokestacks of ilic central power station
rising like a giant out of the bush-dotted and
almost empty plain. Matan climbed down to the
piailorm, made his way across to a bench, and,
sinking down exhausted, watched the train pnl!
out. He had not eaten for two days and a lever
ran in his veins.
A STORY BY JACK COPE
61
The boy raced up and down in a daze of
happiness. He loved the machines and heavy
electric engines, the maze of power lines, the
intricate transformer plant where black men
in smart uniforms were at work, the hiss and
whirr of strange things, and, high above all, the
great plumes of smoke going up in the blue
sky. He would one day work in the power sta-
tion, he thought. His lather sat on the bench
recovering liis strength while the boy played,
dodging among passengers and porters. He un-
tied the sixpence to play with and threw it in
the air.
Matan watched the boy and thought of con-
tinuing his journey, this time on foot over the
ridge and into the umSuluzi valley. He saw the
coin make a bright arc, land on the platform,
and roll over the edge. His son looked down at
the track where his sixpence had fallen. A train
drawn by a green electric locomotive was coming
quietly and swiftly into the platform and the
boy, without seeing it, was on the point of leap-
ing down to the track.
From the bench Matan could not reach him
in time. "Blicka!" he yelled. "lyez' isitimela!"
("Watch out— the train's coming!") The child
turned and, seeing the locomotive, flinched back
as if struck. The passenger train glided through
the station without halting and after the last
coach and the van had passed by he looked down
and there was his coin still lying in the ballast.
He jumped lightly over to recover it.
Quickly he climbed up again, clutching the
sixpenny piece in his fist, and ran to his father.
With shining eyes, he said: "Father, you spoke!"
Matan had the branch across his knees and
with lips half drawn back from his teeth in an
expression like a snarl he watched it intently.
He did not hear or see his son. But nothing
happened to the smallest leaf on
the branch. He did not quite
know what he had expected. Per-
haps, if the long shadow of his
father had indeed been riding
on the bough, it would have
made some sign of its departure,
withering the leaves or setting
th,em on fire. Yet nothing hap-
pened and the terrible suspicion
swelled again in him that there
was no bringing home of his
ancestors, there was no averting
the evil following him, no way
of controlling his destiny. What
must be must be.
"Come," he said mildly to the
boy. "Let us go." He walked now with an effort
and his tall straight back was slightly stooped.
A fierce energy drove him on and the boy fre-
quently ran a few paces or jogged at his father's
side, clinging to the ragged and flapping great-
coat.
They kept for some miles to the dusty district
road. The sun's heat danced from the hard clay
and shale and in the bush the sun beetles droned
and shrilled. The man kept his eyes fixed ahead
and passing any stranger he merely raised his
free hand in a silent gesture. "My father cannot
speak," the boy explained, and they hurried on.
Down through the thorn scrub they turned on an
ancient footpath, and they did not slacken pace.
Sweat dripped from Matan's chin and the boy
trotting behind gasped for breath, his bare feet
burning.
A few times they stopped at a stream to drink
a little water and rinse their faces, and they
crossed the slow-running umSuluzi at a drift.
At last they came to their home, two thatch bee-
hive huts set at the foot of a rocky hill, and an
old woman, who was a relative of Matan's
mother, stopped grinding corn and fetched him
a drink in a calabash. She regarded him with in-
tense alarm and had noticed how he had changed
for the worse, but she tried to keep her face
turned aside and did not speak except in greeting.
He left the boy with her and from the black-
ened thatch inside his hut drew out a long-
bladed fighting assagai. He placed the branch
at the back of the hut with a bowl of milk and
went out again into the afternoon sun, now
carrying his assagai as well as his sticks. At the
drift across the umSuluzi he slopped to polish
the blade of his spear, taking fine sand and a
piece of pumice to hone off the spots of rust. He
washed it down in the clear water and dried the
glittering blade on his sleeve. It
was illegal and dangerous to
carry such a weapon but he now
cared little for that.
A quick walk through the
bush brought him at sunset to
a wealthy kraal where many
cattle and goats were being
penned by small boys for the
night. The huts were built of
stone with stout tliatch roofs out
of which thrust poles and sticks
surmounted by various skulls
and horns of animals and blown-
up gall bladders. One hut alone
was of the traditional all-thatch
pattern and was even weathered
62
THE MAN WHO DOUBTED
and dilapidated in a kind ot mock humility, and
here he tound the isangoma expecting him.
"You have spoken, you opened your mouth!"
the man accused him without any ceremony.
"I have spoken— what matter?"
"Did you remember what 1 said? '
"I remembered." Matan turned on him fero-
ciously and glared almost maddened at the
crafty and intelligent face obscure in the growing
darkness.
"Why have you come here armed?"
"I came to hear what you will say. I want to
know if my father has returned. I want to know
if I will be given peace, I and my son."
"How can I say? You have broken the com-
mand of the spirits."
"I paid you my last cow to do this— and you
will do it, son of Noqomfela."
"Have you come to threaten me, one who can
destroy you with his little finger?"
"I must have an answer. Come with mc now
and attend to the burial of my father's shadow.
The grave is ready. And if you say he has not
come home thert I swear to you, evildoer, I will
send your ghost to fetch him."
He laid his palm along the shining blade of
the spear to make himself clear to the doctor
and then stooping under the low door he came
out. In single file they returned on the path
through the bush. The isangoma walked ahead,
a slight old man wearing a monkey-fur cap and
carrying a thin blackened wand. It was dusk.
The grave was in a hollow near the river and
over it rose the pale-dusty ominous trunk of
a fever tree. Matan had dug it himself before
leaving. He brought the branch of wild olive and
some pots of beer and corn and he led a goat on
a thong for the sacrifice. He quickly cut the
goat's throat with the sharp edge of his assagai
blade and 'disemboweled it. While he struck a
match the witch doctor studied the fat on the
entrails and slit out the gall bladder. The match
went out and now the moon shone down on
them from a clear black sky. By its light Matan
climbed down into the grave and carefully ])laced
the pots of food and beer. When he raised him-
self he saw the other had scratched together
some twigs and lit a small fire. On it he sprinkled
powder from a horn and a thick, acrid smoke
hissed out, flowing like a liquid down the lip
of the new grave. Matan coughed heavily.
"Leave your weapon too," the doctor said.
But he gripped the gleaming, bloodstained spear
all the tighter and began slowly to dimb oul. He
was weak and heavy in his limbs, fighting tena-
ciously to keep his balance. The fever raced in
his veins and his head was ringing. Now he was
out and the isangoma stood to face him.
"Has my father's long shadow returned?" he
demanded.
"He has returned."
"Then you lied to me. Words escaped my
mouth and still you say he is here. This way or
that way you are lying."
"It was too far for him to fly back to the
umLambongwenya so he continued the journey
with you. He is here, he is satisfied."
"This is another lie. I have not heard his
voice."
"You do not hear and see because yoiu' life is
nearing an end. Son of Makofin, you are dying."
"That is at least the truth," he said slowly and
bitterly, leaning on the haft of his assagai. "I feel
it ... I will not live many days."
"You have given i.your life for your father, and
for your son."
"Then let us die together," Matan cried out,
raising the spear in a sudden whirl of his thin
but powerful arm. The witch doctor shrieked as
he stepped back.
AT sunrise the boy came to search for his
father and found him lying calm and serene
on his back with his head propped on the roots
of the fever tree and his feet toward the open
grave. Stuck fast inches deep into the bole of
the tree was his stabbing assagai.
"How is it with my father?" he asked with a
beating heart.
The man looked up gauntly and seeing his
son his eyes softened. "It goes well with me.
Is the other here, the son of Noqomfela?"
"No."
"Look about— is he not lying stabbed?"
"No, he is nowhere."
"Look for my spear then."
"It's here, in the tree."
He raised his burning eyes and saw the haft
and blade of his assagai standing out from the
tree trunk. At that he sighed as if greatly re-
lieved.
"When you are old enough," he said with
difficulty, "get back the place of youi fathers
and live there in peace. Let them bury me in
the same grave which I dug for Makofin. Now
we are home. One day you may have cattle
again, and men children and girl children. I
cannot give you anything."
The boy twisted out of a knot in his vest the
coin he had picked up. "Look, I have a sixj)cnce.
J will grow big and have boots to wear and work
at the power station."
Harper's Magazine, August 1961
Our National Talent
for Offending People
By D. H. RADLER
/ drive carefully down a narroxv street in
Honduras, eyes squinting against the tropical
sun. My old sedan, mud-splaslied from fording
the rivers, rattles over the bumps. A group of
small children standing in the street watch me
pass. One finds a stone at his feel and Inirls it
against the battered car.
"Vaya gringo!" he shouts. "Yanqui go home."
The other children take up the cry, running
gleefully on their bare, dusty feet.
"Yanqui, go home."
An American newspaper says that U. S.— Latin
American relations arc based only on money— if
we gave more foreign aid we ivould be better
liked. The writer, ivlio is described as "no stran-
ger to Latin America," spent just three weeks in
San Jose, Costa Rica, covering the Organization
of American States conference, a?id he visited
Havana "to analyze the Castro phenomenon."
He is convinced that Uncle Sam "is bound to be
unpopular" merely because he is "a rich uncle."
Did the little boy who threw the rock read
my newspaper? Would more foreign aid ynake
him throw orchids instead?
July 4: Independence Day in the United
States. Here in Honduras, my friend Don Fausto
insists that I go with him to the party at the
American consulate. There is a new consuhir
official and he wants to meet him.
"I should think the last one was enough for
you," I rib him.
Don Fausto is a large landowner and cm-
ploys many workers. The former official was a
dedicated unionist. While he was here, the
counter of the consulate was covered with AFL-
CIO pamphlets, in Spanish, touting the benefits
of unionism. Leaflets explained how to organize
and bargain, even how to stage a strike. Don
Fausto had been nearly apoplectic over this, but,
Stateside-educated aiul a baseball fan, he's for-
giving. (The official was transferred, finally, to
Havana.)
"The new one's bound to be better," Don
Fausto laughs. His English carries a Hoosier
drawl— he took his engineering degree at Rose
Poly in Terre Haute.
Reluctantly I go with him, although I find the
party in questionable taste. Why advertise it,
in English, in the local Spanish-language paper?
64
OUR TALENT FOR OFFENDING PEOPLE
Why invite "the American community and tran-
sient Americans?" We stand near the drink
table, chatting with the Costa Rican consul. One
of the local Company executives who can't speak
Spanish joins us and we switch to English. The
Costa Rican speaks it even better than Don
Fausto, without a trace of accent. I hope that
my Spanish is as good, but 1 doubt that it is.
A man I haven't seen before drifts toward us.
Flabby and pale, he's obviously new to the
trojjics. He joins us, shakes hands all around,
introduces himself as the new official. He
doesn't listen for our names or ask about oiu"
connections. Instead, Don Fausto asks him
where he went to school and he names one of
the Ivy League colleges.
"Rose Poly," Don Fausto offers proudly.
"Oh," the official replies.
A group of newcomers arrives, talking ex-
citedly in Spanish about the si/e of the party,
the [)robable cost of the new, modern biulding,
and where are the drinks. Making a face, the
official excuses himself.
"Got to go talk with the natives in their bar-
barous language," he says.
The Costa Rican, a true diplomat, asks if I'd
like another drink, I mumble an embarrassed
thank-you-but-no, and Don Fausto and I leave
the party.
"Goddamn gringo," Don Fausto mutters.
September 15: Independence Day in Honduras.
All around me, the stir of celebration— fire-
crackers popping, bands playing, parades in the
street, horns beeping, people shouting. On this
day 139 years ago, Honduras fought free of
Spanish rule. Since then, it has moved from the
grip of one dictator to anotlier—the scene of 135
rexjohitions, almost one year. Now, tinder a freely
elected deynocratic regime, the people really cele-
brate this day.
In front of me, a pair of American tourists.
Each holds a camera; each carries, slung from
his shoulder, a loaded gadget bag. But neither
shoots a picture.
"Pretty crummy," one says.
"Yeah," replies the other. "Mexico puts on a
helluva lot better show."
Several bystanders who understand English
turn to look at them; then, with the ineffable
raised-eyebroiv Latin shrug, go back to xoatching
the parade. The tourists shoulder their xvay
through the crowd, looking petuhnil.
It is quiet in the nearby Company town. In
compliance tvith the law, the Company has re-
leased its thousands of workers for the day.
Beyond this, and a congratulatory ad in the local
paper, it does not participate in the festivities.
The Hondrirans, short on money but long o)i
enthusia.sm , have squeezed into Microbuses or
have walked the ten miles to San Pedro to cele-
brate. Their stilt-legged barracks are quiet, ham-
mocks .sivinging empty in the afternoon breeze.
The Americans in "The Zone" are inside their
houses, their maids gone for the day.
The contrast between the Zone and the
workers' barrnroncs springs out at you noiv. On
the one hand, looodcn multiple-family barracks,
iinpainfcd and unscreened, rising on stilts over
a patcJi of sa)id or concrete; in The Zone, one-
and two-story houses icith large, screened porches,
set in the middle of spacious landscaped yards
maintai)ied by natixie gardeners. Housing is as-
signed by position, trot by nationality. But most
of tJie "first-class employees" are American. It
is, after all, an American company. Only its land
and its labor are Honduran.
I leave the north coast and drive into the in-
terior. Ry suppertime I am in Siguatepeque,
where a boy once threw a stone at my car. This
is cooler country, weH located halfway between
Hondiuas' two most imjiortant cities, right on
the main highway, up nearly 4.000 feet. There
are many tourists and other transients, many re-
tired people. Quite a few are Americans. There
are also a mission school and hospital and several
small businesses run by Americans.
The diners in the pension look up and nod as
I enter, then resume their heated conversation.
"And, did you hear what those two U. S.
Senators said last week?"
"About what?"
".■\bout that goddamn Trujillo. They said he's
'the ideal leader' for 'those countries' and that
he's made more progress without American aid
than any of us have with it."
"I thought the U.S. went along with the San
Jose resolution condemning the cabron."
"They did, but you can see what they really
think from what those Senators said. Imagine,
one is chairman of the Agricidture Committee
and the other of the Judicial Committee."
"Carajo! Goddamn gringos!"
"Didn't the House of Representatives refuse
to cut Trujillo's sugar quota? They cut Castro's
but not Trujillo's. That shows you where they
stand."
"Sure. Trujillo owns most of the sugar— and
he's forever entertaining gringo politicians or
giving 'em medals."
In the morni)}g, I awaken again in La Es-
pertniza. the lovely mountain toxvn xvhere I live.
High in the southxvestern hills, roe are some three
hours' drive off the main road. Fexo Americans
come here; xce hax'e no consulate; the Company
has no operations here. As I stroll down the
street f)ast the fyark, a bunch of little hoys pass
on their xoay to school.
"Hold, gringo," they call. "Que le vaya bien.
May all go xi'rll xeith you."
BY D. H. RADLER
65
AL L of these incidents have taken place
here in Honcknas within the past couple
of years. I've seen similar occurrences in Mexico,
Cuba, Guatemala, Nicaragua, Costa Rica, Pan-
ama, and Colombia. I have no reason to believe
that anything different is going on anywhere in
Latin America. But I am convinced that until
something cjuite different starts happening, the
Ihiited States will continue to fail here, as it is
assuredly failing now— no matter how many mil-
lions we pour into this area.
Despite what the hit-and-run newspaper pun-
dits write after a one- or two-week flying visit,
we are in trouble in Latin America and all of
our money isn't helping our cause here. And
odd as it may seem to the nation that gave birth
to Madison Avenue, one strong reason we aren't
liked in Latin America is simply that we aren't
very likable. In fact, it almost seems that Ameri-
cans here are intent upon— and eminently suc-
cessfid at— losing friends and alienating people.
Since I live in Honduras and know it better
than the other Latin American countries, I'll use
Honduras as my main example. What happens
here, however, is not very different from wliat
happens elsewhere south of the border.
Here we are known primarily through two
banana companies (Standard Fruit Company and
the larger LInited Fruit Comjiany), a handful of
State Department personnel, and the American
publications that are read here— chiefly, Time
magazine's Latin American edition, in English.
Many, many Latin Americans know English—
;! fact we tend to forget when we talk about them
in their presence. English is taught in the schools
here and is spoken, or at least understood, by
many ordinary citizens, not just by the Stateside-
educated business and professional men and
politici-nn. ^Vhen I first came to La Esperanza,
one of the most remote towns in the country, the
i;i\ collector greeted me: "Good! Now I've got
' chance to practice my English." He had never
!;een to tlic States, didn't plan to go, but wanted
D. H. Radler fell in love ivith Latin America
when he went there in 1958 to establish a research
information project for United Fruit. Noiv a free-
lance ivriter in Honduras, he explores the country
and meets the people, often riding on horseback
remote from the highivays. He has written many
articles and is a contributing editor of "'Industrial
Research.'' Formerly on the staff of Purdue Uni-
versity as a science ivriter, he collaborated on two
books (''The American Teen-ager" and "Success
Through Play").
to improve his English "because it's an impor-
tant language." How many Americans feel that
way about Spanish, spoken by well over two hun-
dred million people?
To Hondurans and other Central Americans,
the banana companies represent American cap-
italism; the Embassy and Consulate stand for
American government; the press, notably Time,
says what the American people think about their
neighbors to the South. All have failed to present
our country effectively. It is worth examining
why.
The Comfyanies
Initially, the banana companies came here
under concessions from local governments grant-
ing them huge acreages in return for their
investments, especially the construction of much-
needed railroads.
Honduras, perennially the leader in efforts
toward Central American federation, hoped for
an east-west rail link to encourage union. By
1924 it had awarded nearly 200,000 acres of rich
banana land to United Fruit alone, as compen-
sation for future railroad construction. Today,
Honduras possesses 900 miles of railroad— but
they are all within the banana zone and Teguci-
galpa remains one of the few national capitals
in the world without rail communication.
On the other hand, the banana companies
have turned useless jungles and swamps into
productive farms. They have built homes, hos-
pitals, schools, and clubs; have maintained vast
health and sanitation programs, virtually eradi-
cating malaria in their own areas; have con-
sistently paid their men more than any other
rural workers in the country. In addition, the
taxes and wages they pay are larger by far than
those of any other industry in the country-
United Fruit alone contributes almost one-sixth
of Honduras' gross national product.
UF has also endowed and hcljied support the
Central .American School of Agriculture at Zam-
orano, near Tegucigalpa; maintains a vast col-
lection of economic tropical crops at Lancetilla,
near the port of Tela; has sent out, free, millions
of seedlings to sjjread new and better fruits, vege-
tables, and timber trees throughout the American
tropics.
WHiy, then, is there such feeling against the
Company? Part of the answer is sheer size— UF
is the dominant factor in the national economy.
Operating throughout Guatemala, Costa Rica,
Panama, Colombia. Ecuador, and the Dominican
Rei)ublic, it is known as el pnlpo, "The Octo-
pus." Another reason lies in its special contracts
V
66
OUR TALENT FOR OFFENDING PEOPLE
with the government. Hondurans charge that
these agreements have subjected their national
resources to foreign control and their local
politics to foreign interference.
It is conceivable that different policies could
have made UF, which has done much for Hon-
duras, a welcome partner. Instead, the Company
seems consistently to have pinsued a course cal-
culated to make it— and American industry in
general— warmly disliked.
No attempt has been made to let Hondurans
purchase stock in the local Companies, thus al-
lowing them participation in ownership if not
control; no director or top executive of the
present Company is a Latin American, few even
have much tropical experience. Local managers
are all Americans, as are most department heads
and other executives. For years, executive
trainees have been shipped in from the States
rather than recruited locally. (This year, at last,
some graduates of the UF-endowed Zamorano
agricultural school are being trained by the Com-
pany for senior agricultural positions. But all
"dollar employees"— those hired in the States-
are paid on a higher wage scale than those hired
locally.)
Instead of integrating its American personnel
into the local communiiy, United Fruit main-
tains Company towns. Housing and other facili-
ties, including, for example, use of Company
vehicles, are a function of position— which means
that the American jefes conspicuously have the
best. As a direct residt of this segregation, many
Company people, and even more of their wives,
speak Spanish poorly or not at all, even after
years of residence here. Their parties and leisure
activities might well take place back home: the
Latin hosts feel shut out on their own home
grotind.
The Company does nothing to discourage this
effective apartheid— it maintains no orientation
program for American employees, doesn't de-
mand Spanish language ability or teach the lan-
guage (except in a few essential cases of men
who will supervise farm workers speaking only
Spanish), in no way rewards employees who
adapt to the local environment and make friends
for the Company. Instead, UF runs an American
school for all U. S. children as well as some
Latins— who are chastised for speaking even a
word of Spanish, "because we're teaching English
here!"
Recently, UF has given much proud publicity
to a plan for transferring the ownership of its
land to local farmers if ihcy agree to raise
Ijanana.'i (jn it. UF will bu) their product, ship
and market it, thereby "going into partnership"
with the nationals in the countries where it oper-
ates. However, labor leaders point out that the
Company will thus avoid most of its current legal
obligations to maintain schools and hospitals,
provide labor benefits such as vacation with pay,
terminal leave, etc. Government agronomists
note that most of the land in question is now
unsuitable for production of the market-favoriic
Gros Michel banana because of a soil fungus im-
ported by UF on planting material in years past.
Other critics wonder why the company is not
extending its "partnership plan" to its highly
productive, low-cost producing zone on Panama's
west coast.
The irony of such close-fisted policies is that
they are not paying off. Toward the end of
1958 the Company's stock sold at $52 and was
considered an eminently blue chip. In May of
this year, it was selfing at less than half that
price. The pessimism of investors is matched by
the hostility of Central Americans to North
American industry in general.
The Diplomats
If anything, our diplomats do worse. Our
Embassy in Tegucigalpa occupies a huge, luxuri-
ous, high-walled modern fortress. In sharp con-
trast to most of the other embassies of the old
capital, it reeks of money and power.
One former Ambassador made a policy of ac-
companying President Ramon Villeda Morales
on his frequent trips aroimd the country, ap-
parently intending to create an image of Ameri-
can-Honduran solidarity. Instead, sensitive local
people predictably interpreted this as U. S.
domination over their government. As one Hon-
duran put it, "Uncle Sam gives us money with
no strings attached— then he attaches 'the tick'
to the President's back to see that we spend it
right!"
Recently, a Tegucigalpa university student
told me that he and his fellow students are "tired
of having every government decision checked
with your Embassy." Whether this actually hap-
pens or not is unimportant— the significant thing
is that the students tliink it happens, and resent
it. Remember that in Latin America, the stu-
dents are both active and potent politically—
their weight has often swung revolutions one
way or another. (In 1959, for example, Colonel
Armando Velascjuez Cerrato led a rebellion
against the Honduran government. The police
defected to him; the army wavered; the revolu-
tion failed when the students took up arms in
sujjport of the government.)
BY D. H. RADLER
67
No U. S. group in Honduras addresses itself
to student opinion. The Communists do— all the
time. Is it any wonder that the students are in-
fluenced by them?
"We have few real Communists in our group,"
a student friend told me, "but annoyance with
American meddling and patronizing Americar,
attitudes causes many of us to accept the Com-
munist vocabulary: Yankee Imperialism, Dollar
Diplomacy, and the rest. And remember— we are
the real future leaders here. Anyone with a uni-
versity education is still so rare that he is auto-
matically on top of the heap in the professions,
in business, or in politics."
Our consulate in San Pedro Sula, second city
and economic capital of the country, is also big
and expensive by local standards. Awaiting re-
tirement, the consul is fairly inactive, but several
vice-consuls have left their mark on the com-
munity. There was one, for example who
(1) replaced without notice the pojjular di-
rector of the U. S. cultinal center because she
was a German, not an American, causing vigorous
student protest;
(2) demanded that students at the center,
for course credit, must listen to the Voice of
America;
(3) established a conversational English course
based on readings from Time (whose negative
attitude toward Latin America we will examine
shortly);
(4) called a popular local businessman "a dog-
thief and an ex-Nazi" when a watchdog lent him
by this man doggishly ran home;
(5) earned the local name of "The Ugly Ameri-
can"—and a promotion to a major European
capital as senior information officer.
It would appear that a great many of our
diplomats here are neither selected for nor
trained in diplomacy— or in the language and
customs— or in an acceptable attitude toward the
people whose friendship they are supposed to
win. The rare effective U. S. spokesman— such
as a political officer I met in Mexico City who
had married a Latin, brought his children up to
be bilingual, and settled into the life of the
country— is shortly transferred elsewhere on the
State Department's rigid rotation schedule.
The Russians, who lack official representation
here, have been represented by Cuban emissaries
—tall, handsome, bearded, and uniformed Latins
who are obviously "brothers" of the Hondurans
and whose friendship missions take them into
the cantinas and football stadia of the people
rather than the loftier confines of diplomatic
circles. This approach is reflected in the very
language of the Russians as compared with ours:
e.g., in an early exchange over Cuba, Khrushchev
said, "We will help our Cuban brothers . . . ';
Eisenhower declared, "The U. S. will not per-
mit . . ."
The Voice of Time, Inc.
If American business and government are fail-
ing to make friends for us in Latin America,
their impact is no greater than that of Time
magazine, which, on the record, has made us a
host of enemies. One high-ranking Honduran
government official told me that America would
be much better liked "if Time printed no Latin
American edition at all."
It's easy to see why. Here in Honduras, after
a stormy history of dictatorship, revolution, and
more dictatorship, the people finally have a
freely elected, genuinely democratic government.
President Ramon Villeda Morales, a leading
physician and ardent humanist, took office in
December 1957. Consider Time's coverage of the
events leading up to the election, beginning with
its issue of September 23, 1957:
"Three years ago Honduras' Liberal Party Chief
Dr. Ramon Villeda Morales, 48, nicknamed 'Little
Bird,' had a badly busted wing. . . . Last week he was
riding high. . . .
'Tor the last eight months Villeda has been serving
as Honduras' Ambassador to Washington. The stay in
the U. S. apparently had done him good [italics
mine]. Washington received him warily, largely be-
cause of his leftist campaign oratory in '54, e.g.,
promising campesinos an eight-hour day at double
and triple pay."
U. S. workers have long had an eight-hour day
—and triple the 1954 Honduran average is still
only $1.50 a day, which many Hondurans are
now getting, thanks to Villeda's having fulfilled
the promise Time called "leftist." The article
concluded: "But Villeda Morales proved himself
a much sobered man." The implication that the
Honduran presidential candidate was a wild-
eyed left-winger, but saw the light after eight
months in Washington, is not a pretty compli-
ment to a probable chief of state.
Then, on October 7, 1957, Time reported:
"Villeda had won the [Honduran presidential] elec-
tion in 1954 on a wild-eyed program promising double
and triple wages to farmhands. . . . But eight months
in Washington . . . had a steadying effect. . . . He an-
nounced that he was categorically opposed to Com-
munism."
Here we go one step further, to the clear im-
plications that Villeda had been pro-Conimunist
(there is no record that he ever was); and that
68
OUR TALENT FOR OFFENDING PEOPLE
his stay in Washington had set him straight.
Time continued: "The Assembly . . . can either
name Villeda President or schedule elections,
which he claims to prefer. . . ." Why "claims"?
This implies that Villeda is no democrat, really
wants the presidency any way he can get it. But
in Honduras in 1957, Villeda could have won
any election— why not prefer it?
Despite Time, Villeda became president. He
went to work on health, welfare, education, and
transportation for his country's nearly two mil-
lion people. He built schools, health centers,
roads, and bridges, gave workers a realistic labor
code. Time reported not a word of this. Then
Villeda announced plans for a hydroelectric
plant on the turbulent Rio Lindo. Time de-
clared, October 20, 1958:
"The [World] Bank argued that roads are more
important than a big dose of power for a primitive
country, gave Honduras a $5,000,000 highway loan,
hoping to encourage a big road-building program.
The effect was just the opposite."
As a matter of fact, in that first year in office,
Villeda biult or started building more miles of
road than Honduras had previously had in its
entire 139-year history. He is now building the
Rio Lindo hydroelectric plant as well, with
$16 million loaned by the Export-Import Bank
and other banks which agree that power is es-
sential to Honduras' further development.
On January 1 1 of last year, Time continued its
curious brand of "reporting" from Honduras.
Under the heading of "Letdown," its story began
with a pat on the back for President Morales,
saying that two years after he took office, "Hon-
duras is free and politically stable— no small
merit in a country whose history counts 135
revolutions." But Time swung immediately into:
"Nonetheless, Honduras is a troubled land, suf-
fering, as Tegucigalpa's El Cronista put it last
week, with 'spiritual helplessness and a chronic
economic depression'." And, it added, "Com-
munists are beginning to elbow their way into
the nation's press." Time failed to note that El
Cronista, the authority it quoted a few lines
earlier, is the principal Communist-dominated
newspaper in the country. It has been frantically
and unpopularly supporting— and receiving sub-
stantial financial aid from— Fidel Castro's Cuban
revolutionary government. Concluding tlie same
story. Time declared: "The longer he flutters,
the less Little Bird looks like the stormy petrel
he seemed before taking office."
But Villeda, in addition to his ckai record of
social ac(()mjjlishnicnt, has meanwhile siucess-
fully handled a half-do/cn armed rebellions from
the extreme right; replaced an entire recalcitrant
national police force with a loyal civil guard;
effectively countered constant Communist agita-
tion throughout the country— without declaring
a "state of siege" such as neighboring Guatemala,
Nicaragua, and El Salvador have found neces-
sary. Furthermore, he has avoided major strikes
in the ailing banana industry, the mainstay of
the nation's economy, and he has attracted sub-
stantial capital investment from abroad in a
period when such investment has been on the
decline throughout most of Latin America be-
cause of political instability.
Were Time's needless flippancy aimed only at
Villeda, one might see it as an isolated prejudice
but the magazine— which is read throughout
Latin America as the voice of the U. S.— main-
tains the same smug, belittling attitude toward
virtually everything Latin American, except, per-
haps, its dictators. Items:
BRAZIL (January 16, 1956): ". . . Foregoing his
gimpy English, the President-elect talked to Ike in
Portuguese, translated by . . ." [For that matter, ivhat
of Ike's non-existent Portuguese?]
COSTA RICA (June 23, 1958): Ex-President Jose
Figueres, one of Latin America's most respected
democrats and a firm friend of the U. S., ivas asked
to tell our House of Representatives u'hy the U. S. is
disliked south of the border. He did. Time reported:
". . . outspoken Pepe so exaggerated and overstated
his case that great pieces of his statement ended
up sounding sadly like the Yanqui-haitin^ he de-
plores. . . ." Don Pepe is and was outspoke?}— that's
why he was asked to give the talk in the first place-
but there n'as little in his statement that is exag-
gerated or overstated, unless any criticism of the
U. S., even by inxntation, must necessarily be so
characterized.
VENEZUELA (July 21, 1958): Time's f^rst reference
to Presidential Candidate Romulo Betancourt, an-
other leading liberal ivith pro-U . S. leanings: "Key to
the political puzzle was beefy Romulo Betancourt,
50, top man of the leftist Democratic Action. . . .
Betancourt now takes a carefully statesmanlike line."
BOLIVIA (March 2, 1959): "Last week a U. S. Em-
bassy official added up the results [of U. S. aid to
Bolivia] and made a wry face. 'We don't have a damn
thing to show for it,' he said. 'We're wasting money.
The only solution to Bolivia's problems,' he went on
to wisecrack, 'is to abolish Bolivia. Let her neighbors
divide up the country and the problems'."
Time's story not only enraged Bolivians but
set off anti-American riots in which several peo-
ple were hurt, significant property damage was
done, and U. S. prestige was badly deflated. On
March 16, calling the story "The Fanned Spark,"
Time rejiorted: "This ruefid jest, rej^eated by a
U. S. official in La Pa/ and (juoted in Time's
Maich 2 issue, was turned last week into the
BY D. H. RADLER
69
spark for three clays of anti-U. S. violence. . . .
The U. S. position [was] that there was 'no evi-
dence' that the statement was ever made. . . ."
These examples could easily be multiplied.
Surveying the Latin American edition of Time
over the past four years, one finds a consistent
tone of smug superiority, a persistent flow of
ridicule for virtually everything Latin American.
Of course, there are occasional favorable stories
in Time. Its longer "cover stories" on Latin
America— for example, the one on Betancourt of
Venezuela in February 1960— sometimes show
signs of more responsible editing and writing
than do its week-to-week reports. But Time's
favors are rarely bestowed on any performance
south of the border that doesn't neatly mirror
dime's version of life in the U. S.
Even then the Time style intrudes. For in-
stance, in a story commending Brazil, Time
couldn't resist discussion of the country's
"Johnny-come-lately industries." In general,
towns smaller than Rio de Janeiro or Buenos
Aires are described as "sleepy"; nations less de-
veloped industrially than Mexico or Colombia
as "backward" or "primitive"; plans for local
development as "starry-eyed"; appeals to the
U. S. as "dollar-hungry"; dealings with govern-
ments Time does not approve of as "Red-lining."
So much for our major press representation in
Latin America. Along with the often greedy,
thoughtless behavior of American business here
and the weirdly "Ugly American" performances
of so many of our government people, Time
must bear responsibility for jeopardizing our
relations with Latin America.
Guilty Gringos
Meanwhile, the average Americans who come
here make matters worse. In general, they are
badly informed before they come and they make
a bad impression when they arrive. Then, while
they are here, they send more misinformation
back home. Talking in New York recently with
a director of a large, world-wide U. S. corpora-
tion, I was shocked to hear that his men had re-
ported that anti-Yankee feeling is dead in Latin
America, except for Cuba. "We don't have a
thing to worry about," he smilingly told me. But
his men, dressed in business suits, arriving by
plane and traveling by car in the big cities, see
only the glitter— and talk only with their Latin
American counterparts. Educated, traveled, and
wealthy, these Latins know what side their im-
ported melba toast is buttered on. If they know
of anti-gringo sentiments, they're altogether too
smart to talk about it.
But on the walls of the millions of thatch-
roofed shacks of the peasants, Fidel's picture
hangs alongside that of Christ and the Virgin,
replacing such former local heroes as Francisco
Morazan, martyr to Central American unity. (In
San Pedro, Morazan's statue recently sported the
red-paint legend, "Viva Castro! Yanquis go
home!") And in the field commissaries of the
banana companies and in the candlelit cantinas
of the poor, a word against Castro is still tanta-
mount to suicide. (I know this because I've been
there. Unfortunately, most of our pulse-takers
haven't.)
There are obvious historical, political, and
economic reasons for anti-gringo feelings, chief
among them the size, wealth, and good fortune
of the United States. But the hostility toward us
could be diminished if the Americans who come
here were the sort of people Latins could like
and respect. With few exceptions, they usually
manage to make enemies instead of friends.
We do this by acting as if we are better than
anyone else. We know little of Latin American
history, geography, politics, or economics, ap-
parently because we don't think it's worth learn-
ing; we speak Spanish poorly or not at all be-
cause "they'll understand English if I holler
loud enough." We describe ourselves as demo-
cratic and ask Latin Americans to emulate us—
yet Americans here usually stick to the big cities
and ride the best and most private transporta-
tion. If they enter a Latin home, it is a high-class
home, comfortably reminiscent of upper-middle-
class homes in the States. We seem unable to
tolerate the natural smell of a man who never
heard of deodorants.
During and after World War II, the British
criticized us for brashness, forwardness, loudness.
But today in Latin America we make enemies by
seeming to be too reserved, too preciously with-
drawn. An ex-European, now a Honduran
citizen, told me: "You Americans have had it too
good. You're starting to act like the Germans
before they set out to take over the world. You
really believe you're better than anyone else.
But the day of the superman is over— that's why
nobody likes you."
But I don't think most Americans down here
are irrevocably arrogant, even if they appear to
be. I think they're afraid. They seem to be
frightened and embarrassed by people Avho use
warm abrazos in place of cold handshakes, who
express their emotions frankly instead of ration-
alizing around every bush. Weaned on canned
"self-help" and "popularity" formulas, and
babied along on condensed, homogenized food.
70
OUR TALENT FOR OFFENDING PEOPLE
clothing, and culture, they are repelled and even
terrified by people who eat food as it comes from
the ground, wipe their fingers on their rough
denim pants, and make music and poetry with
their own mouths and hands instead of by proxy.
I know a big, strapping American woman who
has lived peaceably in the tropics for three or
four years who— in broad daylight— left a friend's
house by the back door to avoid passing four or
five Latin workers, employees of the same com-
pany as her husband. She was afraid even to
walk past them (although, husky as she is, she
might well have whipped the whole crowd had
the need arisen). I know another woman who has
always df)ne her own cooking "because if that In-
dian got mad at mc some day, she might poison
the food."
I know several American managers, foremen,
etc., who refuse to discipline their crews or ex-
press disapproval of poor work "because I don't
want to wind up with a machete in my back."
This, despite the countless managers and fore-
men who have got on with the job for years with-
out becoming emergency clinic statistics. Anyone
who has lived here and used his eyes could cite
dozens of similar cases of imagined fears.
It sometimes seems to me that fear, not ar-
rogance, is what makes some American companies
abroad exclude local people from stock owner-
ship or executive resjjonsibility. And perhaps it
is a kind of fear that causes our diplomats to be
woefully imdiplomatic, and publications such as
Time to adopt an attitude of smugness about
everything American (the known) and of flip-
pancy toward everything Latin (the unknown).
Discomfort and Democracy
In the first half of this century, we were
supremely unafraid— in Latin America, the dic-
tators owned the people, and, as often as not, we
owned the dictators. (For example, the old
Cuyamel Fruit Company, which later merged
with United Fruit, openly supported the Bonilla
coup in Honduras, and received notoriously
preferential treatment in return.)
Today, Latin America has only three dictators
—after centuries of oppression, the people have,
in the last dozen years, effected a series of social
and political revolutions in this half of the
hemisphere. In 1948, Costa Rica put down a
would-be dictator, Calderon Guardia; in 1952,
Bolivia overthrew its ancient oligarchy; Argen-
tina rid itself of Juan Pcron in 1955; in 1956,
Peruvian Dictator Manuel Odria quit; Hon-
duras installed Villeda Morales in 1957; in 1958,
Colombia replaced Dictator Rojas Pinilla with
Alberto Lleras Camargo, one of the world's most
distinguished and effective democrats; that same
year, Venezuelan Dictator Perez Jimenez fled, was
replaced by freely-elected Romulo Betancourt;
in 1959, Castro swept Batista out of Cuba; hav-
ing betrayed the revolution, he may soon suffer
the same fate himself.
Sadly enough Americans often seem less com-
fortable in the new rather rough-and-ready
atmosphere of emerging democracy than they
were before Latin Americans began gaining con-
trol of their own destinies. A fruit company
executive who travels constantly told me that he
likes the Dominican Republic best of all: "The
people there don't dare steal anything from an
American or give him a hard time or they'll end
up in jail for life. It may be tough on them but
it's sure good for us!" Our Ambassadors still
seem to get on famously with such people as
Nicaraguan Dictatou Luis Somoza, son of the in-
famous, assassinated "Tacho."
Of course Americans back home approve in
principle when brutal dictators are overthrown;
but those on the spot too often find their neat
and privileged world shattered— and they are un-
willing or unable to come to terms with the
more demanding one that replaces it.
Certainly it would be naive to argue that all
the problems of the United States in Latin
America spring from defective personal relations.
No matter how sympathetic or concerned Ameri-
cans in Latin America may be, our relations will
still founder if obtuse and greedy policies are
pursued by our government and our corpora-
tions. But until the Americans now in Latin
America overcome their provincial fear of the
new and different, they will seem arrogant— and
they will be fondly hated. And even the most
enlightened policies designed in Washington or
New York will be undermined.
Hypocritical calculations by Madison Avenue
public relations experts won't work. Nor will
the patent absurdity of "going native." Instead
we must look upon our Latin American neigh-
bors simply as people like ourselves— less for-
tunate geographically and historically perhaps,
and for the moment in need of our financial and
technical aid. But they are becoming equal part-
ners in the Western Hemisphere, and they de-
mand to be treated as such.
Have we become so affluent and pampered a
people, so lacking in adventure and warmth, that
we will be unable to meet this direct human
challenge? I do not think so, but if we are to
succeed in Latin America, we must shuck off the
habits of the past; and we must do it soon.
Harper's Magazine, August 1961
JOHN D. ROSENBERG
A Matter of
Motive
The events here recounted — although perhaps
not typical — occurred precisely as they
are described; only the names of the
Treasury Department agents are fictitious.
IA S T spring I was summoned to the Treas-
^ury Department Building on West Hous-
ton Street in lower Manhattan. Three years
earlier I had read a Neiu York Times article
headed:
TEACHERS WIN FIGHT
U. S. Permits Cost Deduction
On Courses Since 1954
Promotion No Factor
The Times was wrong. Our fight, to judge from
my own bizarre experience, has scarcely begun.
After reading the article, I decided to file
claims for my educational expenses since 1954.
A colleague suggested that since I am also a
literary critic, I ought as well to deduct for that
corner of my apartment I use when writing. The
government, I calculated, owed me $517.04 for
overpayment of taxes.
For nearly three years the claims were shuffled
back and forth among the various New York
offices of the Internal Revenue Service until, at
last, I was directed to appear before Mr. Santini,
Assistant Adjuster for Educational Claims.
"You know, Mr. Rosenberg," he announced as
I seated myself opposite him, "we've had to dis-
allow 90 per cent of all educational claims. Es-
pecially those of teachers. I suppose you took
the courses because you need a Ph.D. And you
need a Ph.D. to get tenure?"
"Exactly."
"I'm afraid that's why we can't allow it," he
said with pained solicitude. "You see, if you
don't have tenure, we must consider you a
temporary employee taking courses in order to
get a job you don't yet have. And expenses in-
curred in order to obtain a new position are not
allowable."
"But I've already got the job. I've had it for
years. Some of my colleagues have withered and
died in the same 'temporary' status. What you're
saying is that if I had the degree, the govern-
ment would allow me to deduct for courses I
would have no reason to take; but since I took
them because I needed them, they are disal-
lowed."
"You might put it that way, if you like."
"Now suppose," I continued, "we forget the
degree altogether. I have a statement from
the chairman of my department certifying that
if I had not taken those courses, I would long
ago have lost my job."
"I'm afraid it sounds odd, Mr. Rosenberg, but
you can't claim that, for in the eyes of this
Department you are not yet employed."
After a stunned moment I confessed it was
rather paradoxical, and then recalled the ex-
actly analogous case of a colleague. "Perhaps
you maintain that Marlor wasn't employed
either— you disallowed his claim. He appealed
to the Tax Court and lost there, too. But the
U. S. Court of Appeals reversed the decision and
upheld him."
"You're right, the decision went against us.
But the Treasury Department does not acquiesce
in the case of Marlor."
"I beg your pardon?"
"The Treasury Department refuses to ac-
quiesce."
"One doesn't choose to acquiesce, or disdain
from acquiescing, in a court decision. One com-
plies."
"The Treasury Department refuses . . ."
"Then, Mr. Santini, the Treasury Department
sets itself above the law. You are tyrannizing
over the taxpayer, subverting the judicial process,
inviting anarchy."
72
A MATTER OF MOTIVE
"The Treasury Department . . ."
"Look," I interrupted, trying to avoid a com-
plete impasse, "why don't you go over the rest of
my claim and see if we can still come to a settle-
ment?"
He agreed; and to assure^ me of his fairness,
summoned his colleague Mr. Vine, a soft-spoken,
soft-shoed agent of about forty. Together they
scrutinized the only other item of moment: the
rent deduction which I had claimed as a writer.
"I see that you have not declared your income
from writing," Mr. Vine noted in a grave
whisper.
"I have none."
"You mean all your stories are rejected?"
"No— my essays have been published, but I do
not get paid."
"Surely you don't expect the Treasury Depart-
ment," he asked shaking his head, "to grant a
deduction when there's no income from which
to deduct?"
I slumped in my chair. Mr. Saniini turi.od to
Mr. Vine; Mr. Vine, standing directly in front
of mc, said softly, "A weak case ... a iiery weak
case." I felt that Mr. Vine was passing judgment
not merely upon my claim but upon my person.
He returned to his desk across the aisle. My spirit
was desolate, my hopes drained dry.
MR . S A N T I N I figured the claims with-
out my deductions as writer or teacher.
I owed the government $137.13. I glanced des-
perately around the office. The other claimants
had long since departed, and a small cluster of
agents were chatting away the remaining minutes
until five o'clock. One agent— portly, balding,
but youngish— walked over to the desk. Mr.
Santini introduced us and I felt at once in the
presence of a superior spirit who looked upon
the petty goings-on in that vast room as a kind
of legalistic gymnastic, a game dedicated to the
agile exercise of statutes and precedents. He had
been studying tax law at New York University
for nine years and assured me that my ordeal
paled before those he had been through or was
about to face.
"In fact, Mr. Rosenberg," he said, "I myself,
Treasury Agent Bronstein, just disallowed my
own claim as Taxpayer Bronstein. And do you
know what I'm doing? I'm fighting it in Tax
Court. Bronstein vs. The Treasury Department
comes up in two months. That's how fair we
are. We've got to see it from the other fellow's
point of view, from your point of view, Mr.
Rosenberg. And to show you how just we are,
I'm getting time off from this Department in
order to fight this Department. Do you know of
anything like it?"
I confessed that I didn't, indeed, that my a^ve
waxed as my hopes waned. Appealing both to
his sense of justice and to the Talmudic logi-
calities of his mind, I explained, "Had you al-
lowed my tuition and disallowed my rent, I
would have signed; had you allowed my rent and
not my tuition, I would . . ."
"Ah!" he interrupted with a palms-up shrug
in his voice, "had He fed us on manna, and not
given us the Sabbath, it would suffice us. Had
He given us the Sabbath, and not brought us
near Him at Sinai, it would suffice us. Had He
brought us . . ."
"Precisely! The Lord granted all to His
Chosen People, and you allow nothing."
He seemed touched by the disparity and, in a
conciliatory gesture, picked up the topmost of
the periodicals on Mr. Santini's desk. "What
does 'Jay Ee Gee Pee' mean?"
"It's an abbreviation for Journal of English
and Germanic Philology, a scholarly periodical
of modest circulation."
"You write it?"
"One of the articles is mine."
Helpfully but mistakenly, Mr. Santini pointed
to "Zur Textgestaltung des West-ostlichen
Divans: Orthographic imd Interpunktion." Mr.
Bronstein thumbed incredulously through an-
other entitled "The Structure of Eyrbyggja
Saga," and I sat back thinking it didn't much
matter anyway. Then he began to recite, as if
in some bizarre foreign tongue, " 'Thus Auden,
who conceives of Tennyson as a kind of disem-
bodied ear, mindless and melancholy . . .' " I
was pleased that he had at last found my article.
"Why do you write these things?"
"Because I am a literary critic and this is what
literary critics write."
"Is it a business, trade, or profession?"
"Well, it's certainly not a business. And the
exchange value of six complimentary copies
hardly makes it a trade. Call it a profession; in
my case a nonremunerative one, a charity you
might sav."
"No good. If it's a charity, you've got to be
John D. Rosenberg recently received his doc-
torate from Columbia and he also holds degrees
from Cambridge University. He is an English in-
structor at the City College of New York and lias
published critical articles in a number of literary
journals. His boofc on RusJcin — "The Darkening
Glass" — won the Ansley Award and will appear this
fall.
BY JOHN D. ROSENBERG
73
certified and incorporated. You see, it's all a
cjuestion of motive. Say a man's out to make a
profit— even if he doesn't, that's still his motive,
and we let him deduct expenses incurred while
trying to make the money he didn't make. That's
fine. Now have any of these things ever earned
you anything, or did you ever write them think-
ing they miglit, even pennies?"
It dawned on me that perhaj)s Mr. Bronstein
had taken it upon himself to act as my advocate,
as he was about to do for himself in Bronstein
vs. The Treasury Deportment. Still, in deference
to his own disinterestedness, I refused to lie:
"No, the profit motive doesn't fit. It is the nature
of such journals to lack funds, as it is the nature
of their contributors not to seek them. But sup-
pose my motive was recognition, status, getting
ahead in my profession. We have a slogan where
I work— publish or perish. Why not call it an
obligatory expense, necessary to my professional
survival?"
I believed I had at last scored a point, but Mr.
Bronstein looked glumly at Mr. Santini and
spoke for them both: "You don't get tenure till
you have your Ph.D.?"
I recognized the old sophistry and tried to
squelch it at once: "True, but totally irrelevant."
"True, but terribly relevant, Mr. Rosenberg.
As a temporary employee, you can't claim that
you write in order to hold a job you haven't yet
secured. And if the motive is tenure, then you
are seeking a new position and that, you know,
the government doesn't allow."
".\11 right, then, let's forget the whole busi-
ness. Refund all my taxes, since the government
can't collect on the earnings of a job which it
insists I do not have."
Mr. Bronstein was pleased by the paradox,
Mr. Santini perplexed. I answered their silence
with a riddle: "Gentlemen, I write but am not a
writer; teach but am not a teacher, study but am
not a student. What am I?"
"A taxpayer, even such as I," Mr. Bronstein
replied. With that I began to pick up the ex-
hibits which littered Mr. Santini's desk— bursar's
receipts, transcripts, rent checks, journals. A stack
of letters from various editors was beyond my
reach. Mr. Bronstein passed them to me and, to
my embarrassment, started to read one from
John Crowe Ransom. It was a lovely letter, full
of generous praise, but it concluded with an even
more generous apology for rejecting one of my
essays. For the first time during the long after-
noon—now early evening— I felt something like
outrage. His face alight in incomprehensible
triumph, his finger pointing to the final para-
graph, he thrust the letter across the desk. The
two men were suddenly transfixed. "Do they
pay?" Mr. Bronstein asked insistently.
"What's the difference? They never printed
the piece."
"The matter of motive, Mr. Rosenberg, the
matter of motive! Do they pay?"
"A few dollars a page, perhaps. But this is a
rejection."
"A rejection, Santini, he says it's a rejection!
You hoped to make some money when you wrote
it? You submitted it knoioing they pay?"
"My motive was in part remunerative."
"You have more of the same?"
"More than I care to acknowledge."
"Mr. Rosenberg, the riddle is solved. You are
not an unincorporated charity; you are a profes-
sional writer." Mr. Santini nodded vigorously.
TH E riddle only deepened in my own eyes,
for I could not comprehend why my re-
jection slips and not my published articles
proved that I was a professional. I sorted out
the other paying rejections from the pile of non-
remunerative acceptances and handed them to
Mr. Bronstein. "Can we keep them on file?"
"All except the one from John Crowe Ransom.
I have a certain fondness for it." Mr. Bronstein,
too, had become attached to it, for he suddenly
left the room letter in hand, while Mr. Santini
began to refigure my claims, pausing only to
wonder aloud why I had so long concealed the
rejections.
"One hundred sixty dollars thirteen cents for
1956; one hundred fourteen twenty for 1955;
total of two hundred seventy-four dollars thirty-
three cents; allow eight weeks for the check to
arrive."
While I signed in triplicate, Mr. Bronstein re-
turned with three Verifax copies of the Ransom
letter, which Mr. Santini stapled to my claims.
They scrutinized the completed dossier and Mi.
Bronstein assured me it would pass the super-
visor. "But," he added, "if you had brought re-
jections from real magazines, like Harper's or
the Saturday Eveiiing Post, nobody in the whole
Internal Revenue Service could bat an eyelash."
I thanked him for his advice, Mr. Santini for
his patience and, as I walked out onto VV^est
Houston Street, had an inspiration. I would
write word for word what had transpired, sub-
mit it yearly to Harper's, and every April ap-
pend my rejection slip to the relevant portion
of Form 1040. .And I would be free for as long
as I cared to write for JEGP, PMLA, ASLHM,
MLQ, QJS, and ZfRPh.
Harper's Magazine, August 1961
KENNETH CLARK
ART AND SOCIETY
One of the few truly distinguished art critics
of our time considers the thorniest of
the controversies that harass the world of art
— the relation of the artist to his audience.
AR T is an extensive word. In this essay I
limit it to the branch of art that I know
l)esi, the visual arts: and I take this term to cover
everything made in response to the feeling that
(ertain events or objects of contemplation, seen
or imagined, are so important that they must be
recorded; and that certain objects of use are so
im]:)ortani that they must be enriched. These two
aspects of visual art I refer to as image and
ornament. They used to be called "fine art" and
"apjilied art," and in the nineteenth century
were severely distinguished from one another.
Today we tend to minimize this distinction. We
believe that the form-creating instinct can ex-
press itself in both ornament and image; all
ornament, however abstract, suggests some visual
experience; all images, however factual, reveal
some sense of design. Both are forms of order.
And both are sacramental. "What is this sacra-
ment?" as the catechism says. "The outward and
visible sign of an inward and sjiiritual grace."
Both image and ornament are revelations of a
state of mind and social temper.
Having accepted this basic unity, however,
these two branches of visual art show very great
differences, especially in their relationship to
society, and 1 shall consider them separately.
I think it true tcj say that all image art of any
value has been made by, or on behalf of, a small
minority: not necessarily a governing class in a
political sense, but a governing class in an intel-
lectual and spiritual sense. Since I shall often
refer to this minority, I must decide what to call
it. Plato's "governors" is loo narrow a icini,
RcHisseau's volonU' gcnerair is loo wide and too
mysterious. For the sake of brevity J have re-
ferred to it as an elite; although in fact it is not
elected, and may be drawn from any class of
society.
Images are not made for fun. In fact it is
almost true to say that all image art of value il-
lustrates or confirms a system of belief held by
an elite, and very often is employed consciously
as a means of maintaining that system. Obvious
examples are the theocratic art of Egypt, the
Parthenon with its Olympian embodiment of
Greek philosophy, the stained glass of Chartres
and Bourges illustrating not only Christian
legend but the whole superstructtire of patristic
theology, the temples of Angkor and Borc^budur,
the Basilica of Assisi and its Buddhist equivalent
Ajanta, the Stan/e of Raphael, and so forth,
down to David's picture of the Oath of the
Horatii. The list could be expanded till in the
end it would include most of the greatest visible
feats of human imaginatic:)n and all of those
which are in any way related to society and do
not depend solely on the genius of an individual
artist. It seems that an image achieves the con-
centration, clarity, and rhythmic energy which
make it memorable only when it illustrates or
confirms \vhat a minority believes to be an im-
j)ortant truth.
The images provided for the majority by the
elite may be more, or less, popular. Franciscan
art in the thirteenth centiny and Baroque art in
the seventeenth century were two attempts to
create a ne^v repertoire of images which should
be more ])opiUar than that Avhich preceded it.
Both consciously exploited emotionalism. But
the artists who gave the finest expression of those
styles— let us say Cimabue and Bernini— were
working for a small group of patrons, and were
deeply receptive of their ideas. Bernini's Saint
Theresa became a j)opular image; it revealed to
the majoiity a hidden need. But it was Bernini's
o\vn invention and in its origin it owed nothing
to poj)ulai demands. F\en the images which we
first belie\e to have a popular origin— for ex-
ample those charming woodcuts known as images
d' Epinal—dLxe for the most part naive and imper-
fect memories of images already invented for the
elite by such an artist as Philippe de Champagne.
The only exceptions I can think of are those
anecdotal strips which simply tell a story, often
with the help of balloons of text. Such were the
ilkistrations of late antique manuscripts, the
painting of popular artists like Pacino di Bona-
guida, the Bihlia Pauperum and its derivatives,
and a number of Japanese scrolls, like the comic
animals attributed to Toba Sojo. These, I be-
lieve, are the only forms of autochthonous popular
image art before the nineteenth century, and I
mention them now because they reveal a funda-
mental characteristic of all popular art: that it is
concerned with narration.
At first sight ornament would seem to be a
more popular form of expression than image.
Ornament has the character of a language— nine-
teenth-century writers used, quite properly, to
speak of the grammar of ornament— and in so
far as it is a living language it is accepted almost
unconsciously by the majority. However there is
this difference, that whereas language seems to
have evolved unconsciously from mass needs, a
system of ornament has seldom been invented by
"the people." In f;ict I can think of only one
exception: the pottery of the Mexican Indians,
which is outstandingly beautiful and does seem
to be a genuine popular creation. In Europe
good folk ornament turns out almost always to
be a cruder rendering of a minority style; and I
think the same is true of China, India, Persia,
and the whole Moslem culture. I would even
extend this to the most vital and expressive of
all ornament styles— that produced by the so-
called folk-wandering peoples. I believe that the
finest Scythian ornaments were by a great artist
working for a chief, and that most of what has
been discovered in Scandinavia or Scotland is a
half-understood imitation of these aristocratic
adornments.
In ornament the ulterior motive is less strong
than in the image. It does not openly recommend
Sir Kenneth Clark, eminent art historian, was
formerly Director of the National Gallery in Lon-
don, Slade Professor of Fine Arts at Oxford, and
Chairman of the Independent Television Authority
of Great Britain. His books include ''The Gothic
Revival," "Moments of Vision," and "The Nude."
This essay is adapted from his address at the Cooper
Union Centennial in New York in late 1959 and the
Lloyd-Roberts lecture given to the Royal College of
Physicians.
75
a system. But no one maintains that it exists
solely to please the eye, and lacks ulterior motive
altogether. It is an assertion of status— whether
in a cope or crown or crosier or portail royal or
precious reliquary. This fact, which has been
worked out in detail by Marxist historians, is
taken by them as a condemnation of art; and, as
everyone knows, Veblen coined for it the expres-
sion "conspicuous waste." This expression is
apt, but I do not find it at all damaging. .\11
art is waste in a material sense; and the idea
that things should be made more precious-look-
ing in accordance with the status of the user
seems to me entirely fitting. I think that a
bishop should have finer vestments than a dea-
con and that the portal of a cathedral should
be more richly ornamented than the door of a
warehouse. I would go further, and say that
ornament is inseparable from hierarchy. It is
not only the result, but the cause of status. The
carving on the corner capitals of the Doge's
Palace and the central window of the Palazzo
Farnese confer a kind of kingship on those points
of the buildings. In a democratic building,
where all windows are equal, no ornament is per-
missible; although I understand that the higher
executives may have more windows.
THE FIRST AND SECOND LAWS
SO I would deduce from history this first
law (in the Ruskinian sense) of the relation-
ship of art and society: that visual art, whether
it takes the form of images or ornament, is made
by a minority for a minority, and would add this
rider, that the image-making part is usually con-
trolled in the interests of a system, and that the
ornamental part is usually the index of status.
Created by a minority: yes, but accepted by the
majority unquestionably, eagerly, and with a
sense of participation. The degree of physical
participation in the great popular works of art
is hard to assess. We know tliat in the building
of the Gothic cathedrals— Chartres is the most
familiar example— whole villages moved to be
nearer the work, and men were prepared to learn
subsidiary crafts in order to help the professional
masons. We can assume that the same was rme
of Borobudur or Ellora, although the economic
status of the workers may have been (lilleicnl. A
parallel in modern life would be the buildini!; of
a great liner in Clydebank, whcic the whole life
of the town depends on the work. Bui; apart from
this active participation, one has only to re;ul
the accounts of how in the great ages of artistic
creation works of art were brought iiiio existence
76
ART AND SOCIETY
—the long and serious thought which preceded
the commission, the public anxiety about its
progress, the joy when it was at last accom-
plished, and the procession in which it was car-
ried to its destination, to the sound of bells and
singing of a Te Deum— one has only to come
upon such documents, common enough in the
Middle Ages and Renaissance, and applicable,
surely, to Olympia and the Acropolis of Athens,
to recognize that the society of those times needed
art, believed without question in the value of
art, and participated imaginatively in its making.
So this would be my second law: that a healthy
and vital relationship between art and society
exists when the majority feel that art is absolutely
necessary to them, to confirm their beliefs, to in-
form them about matters of lasting importance,
and to make the invisible visible.
Now in saying that this is the healthiest rela-
tionship between art and society, I must not be
understood as saying that these are the 07Tly
circumstances under which good works of art
can be produced. Even before 1870 great pic-
tures were painted by individuals who had no
relationship with society at all and whose work
was distasteful or incomprehensible to the ma-
jority. Rembrandt and Turner, in their later
phases, are obvious examples. In the history of
art, as in all history, nothing poses a more
delicate problem of interpretation than the rela-
tionship between individual genius and the gen-
eral will. But even if we believe, as I am inclined
to do, that inspiration is more likely to illuminate
an individual than a mass and that all the mem-
orable forms of art were originally invented by
individuals of genius, we must agree that at cer-
tain periods these individuals are isolated, at
others they enlist behind them a whole army of
assent and participation.
Nor is this direct relationship of need and
unquestioning belief certain to produce good art.
Artistic faculties are somewhat imequally— we
may think unfairly— distributed among the peo-
ples of the globe; and although the relationship
may be sound, not all needs have the same
validity. However, I am sufficiently a Ruskinian
to believe that when a society, over a long period,
produces an art which is lacking in vitality and
imaginative power, but which nevertheless seems
to be accepted by the majority, there is some-
thing wrong with that society.
This brings me back to the part of my opening
definition, where I said that art was a sacrament;
and I must now consider hf)w an inward and
spiritual grace can be given outward and visible
form. The answer is, througli symbols. A symbol
is a sort of analogy in the physical sphere for
some spiritual or intellectual experience. Usually
it is the concentration of several related experi-
ences so complex that they cannot be expressed
in any rational form, and so intense that a
physical symbol suggests itself unconsciously. We
know from the saints of every religion that the
most poignant spiritual experiences demand ex-
pression by physical analogies, and, in spite of
Pascal and Spinoza, we may infer that spiritual
experiences which remain abstract are not usu-
ally very intense. Symbols may start as a result
of private revelations, but their value in art
depends on the degree to which they can be felt
and accepted by others. In fact nearly all in-
tensely felt symbols have some universal quality,
which makes them comprehensible even when
their maker believes them to be peculiar to him-
self. But it is also true that the sacramental
character of art is far^more easily achieved when
the principal objects of belief have already been
given a symbolic form which is generally recog-
nized and accepted: in other words, when there
is an established mythology and iconography.
WHY AN EMPTY CHAIR
WILL NOT DO
IN THIS question of art and society the im-
portance of an accepted iconogiaphy cannot
be overstated. Without it the network of beliefs
and customs which holds a society together may
never take shape as art. If an iconography con-
tains a number of sufficiently powerful symbols,
it can positively alter a philosophic system. The
points of dogma for which no satisfactory image
can be created tend to be dropped from popular
religious exposition, and episodes which have
scarcely occupied the attention of theologians
tend to grow in importance if they produce a
compelling image. I would go so far as to say
that the failure to discover a satisfactory symbol
for the Holy Ghost has seriously impaired ovir
concept of the Trinity.
Let me give an example of iconographic
triumph and disaster from one painter in one
place: Titian in Venice. In the Frari his sub-
lime image of the Assumption of the Virgin is
so corporeally convincing that it provided a
point of departure for Baroque painting, and
this image was to float in the background of
Catholic imagination down to our own
day. In the "Salute" is Titian's painting of
Pentecost, a work over which he took great pains,
but witiiout success. It was the final blow to a
subject which had never found an impressive
77
iconographical form, and which in spite of its
theological importance, gradually faded from the
consciousness of popular Catholicism. Let me
take another example from Buddhism. It had
been categorically laid down that the Buddha
must not be portrayed, and in the earliest scenes
of his life, such as those on the stupa at Sanchi,
the central point of each episode is left a blank
—an empty chair or a deserted boat. This insult
to the image-making faculty was not to be borne,
and a representation of the Buddha was finally
accepted. But where did it come from? From
the imitation, in the fringes of the Buddhist
world, of some Praxitelian Apollo. Thus the
most extreme example of spirituality was em-
bodied by the most concrete expression of phys-
ical beauty. Conversely, dogma may triumph
over the popular love of imagery in a theocratic
society, and produce an iconography, like that
of later Bucldhism, with its 10,000 Buddhas,
which deprives images of all artistic quality.
Lest it should be thought that this question of
iconography does not apply to modern life, let
me add that it is not confined to dogmatic re-
ligion. For example, the iconography of the
Romantic Movement from 1790 to 1830 was al-
most as compulsive as if it had been laid down
by the Council of Trent. The tiger— in Blnke,
Stubbs, Gericaidt, Delacroix, Barye, and a dozen
lesser artists; the cloud— in Wordsworth '-ul
Byron, Shelley, Turner, and Constable; the ship-
wreck—in Byron, Turner, Goya, Gericault, Dela-
croix, and Victor Hugo: these are symbols of
Romanticism, used and accepted unconsciously
because they expressed the new worship of na-
ture and power, and a new sense of destiny. I
think it would be a mistake to call this state of
mind a religion. That word should be reserved
for beliefs which are based on a book of holy
writ and involve certain formal observances. But
at least we can say that the belief in nature,
which expressed itself in the landscape painting
of the nineteenth century and has remained the
most productive source of popular art to this day,
is a non-material belief. It is something which
cannot be justified by reason alone and seems to
lift the life of the senses onto a higher plane.
This suggests another "law" in the relation-
ship of art and society: that it is valuable only
when the spiritual life is strong enough to insist
on some sort of expression through symbols. No
great social arts can be based on material values
or physical sensations alone.
This "law" leads me to consider the problem
of luxury art. Now, it would be dishonest for me
to take a puritanical or Veblenist view of luxury
VOYAGE
SAMUEL MENASHE
Water opens without end
At the prow of a ship
Rising to descend
Away from it
Days become one
I am who I was
art. Moreover there is a point— Watteau's "En-
seigne de Gersaint" is an example— at which the
sensuous quality of luxury art is so fine that it
offers a spiritual experience. We are playing
with words and concepts which, as we breathe
on them, become alive and flutter from our
hands. Still, the fact remains that, in the long
run, luxury art implies the reverse of what I
have called a healthy relationship between art
and society and so has a deadening effect. The
most obvious example is the art of eighteenth-
century France, where, however, the arrogant
elaboration demanded by powerful patrons is
sometimes sweetened, and given lasting value,
bv a reasonable belief in the douceur de vivre.
But the predominance of luxury art in the
eighteenth century is a short and harmless
episode compared to that long slumber of the
creative imagination which lasted from the end
of the second century b.c. to the third century
A.D. For almost five hundred years not a single
new form of any value was invented except,
perhaps, in architecture. Works from the pre-
ceding centuries were reproduced interminably
—made smoother and sweeter for private col-
lectors, bigger and coarser for the public.
What can we say of the relations of this art
to the society which produced and accepted it?
That no one believed in its symbols; that no one
looked to it for confirmation or enlightenment.
In short that no one wanted it, except as a con-
ventional form of display. The Romans did not
want art and they did not make it; but they col-
lected it.
The problem of luxury art is complicated by
the fact that the periods in which it predominates
are usually periods when the art of the past is
collected and esteemed. This was obviously the
case in Hellenized Rome and in eighteenth-cen-
tury England: conversely the idea of collecting
and displaying works of an earlier period was
78
ART AND SOCIETY
hardly known in those cultures where the need
for art was strong and widely diffused. One must
distinguish, of course, between the fruitful use
by artists of earlier works, which took place in
thirteenth-century Rheims no less than in
fifteenth-century Florence, and the competitive
accumulation of collectors. The feeling for the
art of the past in Donatello or Ghiberti is en-
tirely different from that of the eighteenth-cen-
tury connoisseurs— at once more passionate and
more practical. "How can I use these admirable
inventions to give my own message?" "How can
T surpass them in truth or expressive power?"
These are the questions aroused by the work of
the past in the great ages of art. In periods of
luxury art, on the other hand, works of the past
are collected at worst for reasons of prestige and
at best in order to establish a standard of taste.
The concept of good taste is the virtuous profes-
sion of luxury art. Rut one cannot imagine it
existing in (he twelfth century, or even in the
Renaissance; and without going into the com-
plex question of what the words can mean, I am
inclined to doidot if a completely healthy rela-
tionship between art and society is possible while
the concept of good taste exists.
WHAT COUNTS IS THE COUNT
SUCH, then, are the deductions that I would
make from studying the history of art; and
I have ventured, in the nineteenth-century man-
ner, to call them laws. It is arguable that this
word should never be applied to the historical
process: we see too little. Rut at least we can say
that these are strong probabilities which should
be our first criteria when we come to examine
the relations of art to society at the present day.
In doing so I may be allowed one assumption:
that fundamentally human beings have not
changed. The picture of human nature which
we derive from the Rook of Kings or the Fourth
Dynasty Egyptian portrait heads in Cairo and
Roston is much the same as what we know today,
and I think we may safely assume that it will
take more than television and the internal com-
bustion engine to change us. In fact, I would
suppose that we have more in common with the
Middle Ages than our fathers had, because to us
universal destruction is an actual possibility,
whereas to our fathers it was only a pious fiction.
However, if human nature has not changed,
human society has; and changed as the result of
a basic shift of mental outlook.
This change can be described in one word:
materialism. The word has taken on a pejora-
tive sense, but materialism has been the source
of achievements which have added immeasurably
to the well-being and happiness of mankind.
Whether as the dialectical materialism of the
East or the liberal materialism of the West, it
has given to masses of men a new standard of
living, a new sense of status, and a new hope.
These benefits have been achieved because
materialism has been the philosophical basis of
two outstanding human activities, one in the
moral and one in the intellectual sphere: hu-
manitarianism and science. These' are the in-
tegrating forces of our culture, and they are as
powerful, and as all-pervasive, as was Christianity
in the Middle Ages.
Now, how does this vmderlying philosophy of
materialism relate to art? One cannot help being
aware of one very serious obstacle. Materialism
and all its children are dedicated to measure-
ment. Rentham's pl^ilosophy was based on the
greatest good for the greatest number. Democracy
depends on counting the number of votes. All
social studies are based on statistics. Science, al-
though it claims to have outgrown that phase,
reached its present position by an unprece-
dented accuracy of measurement.
In its century of triumph, measurement has
even become an article of faith. The potential
of faith in the human mind is probably fairly
constant, but it attaches itself to different ideas
or manifestations at different periods. The bones
of the Saints, the Rights of Man, psychoanalysis
—all these have been the means of precipitating
a quantity of faith which is always in solution.
People probably believe as much nonsense today
as they did in the Middle Ages; but we demand
of our precipitant that it look as if it could be
proved— that it appear to be measurable. Peo-
ple might have believed in art during the last
fifty years if its effects could have been stated in
an immense table of figures or a very complicated
graph; of course they would not have checked
the figures or understood the graph, but the ex-
istence of these symbols of measurement would
have sustained their faith.
Rut we cannot measure the amount of satis-
faction which we derive from a song. We cannot
even measure the relative greatness of artists,
and attempts to do so by giving marks, popular
in the eighteenth century, produced ridiculous
results; Giulio Romano always came out top of
the poll, which as we all know, by some un-
analyzable form of knowledge, is incorrect. The
more honest philosophers of materialism have
recognized that art cannot be measured in ma-
terial terms. Rentham invented the unforgettable
BY KENNETH CLARK
79
comparison between pushpin and poetry, coming
down on the side of pushpin because more peo-
ple wanted it. Poetry he defined as "misrepre-
sentation," whicli is the liberal counterpart to
Veblen's "conspicuous waste." The philosophers
of dialectical materialism have accepted art only
in so far as its magical properties have conceded
the right to enjoy and even to produce art among
the rights of minorities. Art is the opiate of the
few.
How arc the philosophic assumptions of ma-
terialism reflected in the actual status of art in
modern society? It is incontrovertible that fine
art, as the word is usually understood, is the
preserve of a very small minority. We must not
be bamboozled by the claim that more people
listen to "good" music or visit picture galleries;
nor even by the fact that a few of us have tricked
the unsuspecting viewer into looking at old pic-
tures on television. Similar claims could be made
for the nineteenth century— for example, during
the Manchester Art Treasures Exhibition in
1857, special trains ran from all over England,
and whole factories closed down in order that
the workers could enjoy the experience of art;
and yet the next fifty years saw the consolidation
of a Philistinism unequaled since the Roman
Republic.
Anyone who has been concerned with those
"arts" which really depend on the support of a
majority— the cinema, television, or wholesale
furnishing— knows that the minority which is
interested in art is so small as to be irrelevant in
any serious calculation. In England, the majority
is not merely apathetic, but hostile to art. A
recent example was the film of The Horse's
Month, which the exhibitors would not show (in
spite of brilliant acting and hilarious comedy)
simply because the leading character was an
artist. If only, they said, he had been a school-
master or a doctor! This is perfectly understand-
able. The existence of these freakish members
of society whose usefulness cannot be demon-
strated, but who often seem to be enjoying them-
selves and sometimes even to be making money,
is an affront to the ordinary hard-working man.
It is fair to say that in spite of this feeling, artists
are treated tolerantly in democratic countries.
We should be grateful for this tolerance, but
does it not fall far short of my second condition
for a healthy relationship between art and so-
ciety: that the majority feel art to be absolutely
necessary to them; that they are not merely con-
sumers, but participants; and that they receive
works of art as the expression of their own deep-
est feelings?
Before answering this question, I must look back
at my original definition of the word "art." Do
the majority still feel that material things must
be made more precious? Do they still feel tliat
certain images are so important that they must
be preserved? In a sense the answer is "yes." The
majority still want ornament on their clothes,
their furnishing fabrics, their wallpapers, and
many objects of daily use. More than this, they
still mind very much how things look, inde-
pendent of their utility. Whether it be dress or
automobile design, they are still in the grip of
style. They and the designers are swept along by a
blind destiny, a mysterious force which they can-
not analyze, but of which they are acutely con-
scious when they look back at the fashions of
twenty years ago.
A NECESSARY PURGE
BU T no one pretends that, in the last fifty
years, the use of ornament has revealed a
satisfactory relationship between art and society.
Ruskin and William Morris supposed that this
was due to the intervention of the machine. But
this theory turns out to be applicable only to
the Gothic style. In almost every other style the
machine is an extended tool that can be used with
confidence; and for that matter a great deal of the
ornament of the past, from the Viking goldsmith
work of Sutton Hoo to the inlaid panels of the
Taj Mahal, is entirely devoid of manual sensi-
bility and might just as well have been made by
a machine.
From a technical point of view, the premises
on which ornamental art is produced have not
greatly changed. When we examine it in the
light of my other laws, however, the change is
considerable. With a single exception, the orna-
ment favored by the majority is no longer made
for an elite; and it no longer has any underlying
sense of symbolic meaning. In one branch of art
—in architecture— it has almost ceased to exist:
and although we have now grown used to build-
ings without ornament, the historian must
record that this is a unique event in the history
of art, and one which would certainly have
shocked those famous architects of the past who
gave so much thought to the character of their
ornament, and counted upon it at all points of
focus and transition. The great refusal of modern
architecture was perhaps a necessary purge and
had certain health-giving consequences. But
often it is simply an impoverishment, an excuse
for meanness and a triumph for the spirit that de-
nies. That it is not the expression of a popular
80
ART AND SOCIETY
will we learn when we look down the blank face
of a modern building into the shop windows at its
base; and this leads me to the exception I men-
tioned just now: it is women's dress. There, it
seems to me, the compidsion is so strong that a
healthy relationship between art and society is
never lost. I am not suggesting that all fashions
are equally good— of course there are moments
of failing invention and false direction. But they
always right themselves because there is an in-
destructible volonte ge7ierale—a.n interaction be-
tween the elite and the masses, a sense of status
and an unconscious feeling for symbolism.
If the position of ornament in modern society
is uneasy and incomplete, the position of image
art has suffered a far more drastic change, owing
to the invention of the camera. The public
hunger for memorable and credible images has
in no way declined, but it is satisfied every day
by illustrated papers; and the love of landscape
which, as I said, was one of the chief spiritual
conquests of the nineteenth century, is fed by
colored postcards. I am not denying that there
is an element of art in press photography; I will
also admit that I derive a pleasure from colored
postcards which must, I suppose, be called
aesthetic. I prefer a good colored postcard to a
bad landscape painting. But in both these pro-
jections of the image, much of what we believe
gives art its value is necessarily omitted. There
is selection, but no order, and no extension of the
imaginative faculty.
To realize how destructive has been the effect
of the camera on image art, consider the art of
portraiture. The desire to hand down one's like-
ness to posterity produced one of the chief social
arts of the postmedieval world. It did so because
the portrait painters of the time had behind them
an immense weight of volonte generale. The sit-
ters participated because they knew that their
desire to perpetuate their likenesses could not be
achieved in any other way. Now, no one supposes
that a photograph, however skillful, is compar-
able with a Goya as a work of art, or even as a
likeness. But the fact that photography exists,
and can tell us far more accurately than a
mediocre painting what people looked like, has
knocked away the foundation upon which por-
traiture rested. There is no longer a feeling of
participation in the sitters. The portrait painter
no longer feels that he is really needed, any more
than ornament is needed on a building; and so
he, too, has become an anachronism.
The portrait is typical of the decline of con-
fidence in art which is felt unconsciously by the
mass of people as a result of the camera. There
is however one form of popidar imagery which
is not entirely dependent on photography, and
that is the poster. Here, a number of my condi-
tions for a healthy relationship between art and
society obtain. Posters are made on behalf of a
minority and aim at supporting some belief; they
appeal to a majority, and millions of people de-
rive from them what they take to be information
about matters which they believe to be impor-
tant. Moreover, posters achieve their effects
through the use of symbols, and it is a curious
fact that the ordinary man will accept in posters
a symbolic treatment, a freedom from realism,
which he would not accept in a picture framed
in a gallery, simply because a poster does not
exist for its own sake, but is concerned with
something he needs. All this is true, and yet we
know that in spite of many effective and mem-
orable posters, advertising has not produced an
art comparable to J;he windows of Chartres
Cathedral; and never can. The reason is, of
course, that it lacks what I have called the sac-
ramental element in art. I said earlier that the
nearest equivalent in modern life to the building
of a medieval cathedral was the construction of
a giant liner. But the liner is built for the con-
venience of passengers and the benefit of share-
holders. The cathedral was built to the glory of
God. One might add that advertising art is con-
cerned with lies, of a relatively harmless and ac-
ceptable kind; but one must remember that the
great art of the past was also concerned with lies,
often of a much more dangerous kind. The
difference is not one of truth, but of the different
realms to which these two forms of art belong—
the realm of matter and the realm of spirit.
CAPTURE YOUR BIRD ALIVE
IN E E D not press any further the point that
the philosophy of materialism is hostile to
art. But what about its two noble kinsmen, hu-
manitarianism and science? Although they are
to a great extent committed to measurement,
they are not wholly materialistic. They recog-
nize values which we may call moral, intellec-
tual, and even aesthetic. They are the integrating
beliefs of the last 150 years. How are they con-
nected with art?
The more enlightened supporters of humani-
tarianism have often bewailed the fact that art
seems to have flourished in societies which were
quite the reverse of humane. Yet we feel in-
stinctively that this is natural; that kindness,
mildness, decency, are not as likely to produce
art as violence, passion, and ruthlessness. One of
BY KENNETH CLARK
81
the most ancient and persistent images in art is
the lion devouring a horse or deer; and it must
puzzle the humanitarian mind that this blood-
thirsty episode came to be accepted as a suitable
decoration for pagan sarcophagi; then entered
Christian iconography as a symbol of the spirit-
ual life; and finally became the dominating
motif of the only great religious painter of the
nineteenth century, Delacroix. The answer is
given in Blake's Marriage of Heaven and Hell,
and I will not be so foolish as to elaborate it.
But I may quote the words of a great living
painter: "It isn't enough to have the eyes of a
gazelle; you also need the claws of a cat in order
to capture your bird alive and play with it be-
fore you eat it and so join its life to yours." To
put it less picturesquely, art depends on a con-
dition of spiritual energy, which must devour
and transform all that is passive and phlegmatic
in life, and no amount of good will can take
the place of this creative hunger.
I am not saying that violence and brutality
beget art, or that there is not still far too much
violence and brutality left in the world. The
bright new towns in our welfare state are an
achievement of which humanity may be proud.
But do not let us suppose that this peaceful,
humdrum, hell-free, de-Christianized life has
been achieved without loss. And apart from the
unlikeliness of art being forged at such a low
temperature, the doctrine of equality and the
drift toward equality, on which such a society
depends, run counter to one of my first laws.
We have many reliable indications of what Mr.
and Mrs. Honest Everyman really want. We
don't need surveys and questionnaires— only a
glance at suburban or provincial furniture stores
and television advertisements. There we see the
art of a prosperous democracy— the art that is
easily unwrapped— the art of least resistance.
This would not matter much, were it not that
Gresham's law— that bad money drives out good
—is equally true of spiritual currency; and we
are all surrounded by far more bad art than
we are aware of. I observed during the war,
when the amount of conspicuous waste was cut
down in the interest of economy, and objects of
daily use, like teacups, were made without even
a curve, let alone a pattern, that the appetite for
real works of art was much keener and more
discriminating than it was before.
With science the position is rather different.
It is not so much a soil in which art will not
grow as it is a rival crop. The development of
physical science in the last hundred years has
been one of the most colossal efforts the human
intellect has ever made. Now, I think it is argu-
able that human beings can produce, in a given
epoch, only a certain amount of creative power,
and that this is directed to different ends at
different times; and I believe that the dazzling
achievements of science during the last seventy
years have deflected many of those skills and
endowments which go to the making of a work
of art. To begin with, there is the sheer energy.
In every molding of a Florentine palace we are
conscious of an immense intellectual energy, and
it is the absence of this energy in the nineteenth-
century copies of Renaissance buildings which
makes them seem so dead. To find a form with
the same vitality as the window moldings of the
Palazzo Strozzi, I must wait till I get back into
an airplane, and look at the relation of the en-
gine to the wing. That form is alive, not (as
used to be said) because it is functional— many
functional shapes are entirely uninteresting— but
because it is animated by the breath of modern
science.
WARM BLOOD IN SCIENCE
TH E deflections from art to science are the
more serious because these are not, as used
to be supposed, two contrary activities, but
draw on many of the same capacities of the hu-
man mind. In the last resort each depends on
the imagination. Artist and scientist alike are
trying to give concrete form to dimly appre-
hended ideas. Both, in the words of Aristotle's
famous definition of poetry, are hoping "to see
similars in dissimilars." "All science," says Dr.
Bronowski, "is the search for unity in hidden
likenesses, and the starting point is an image,
because then the unity is before our mind's eye."
He gives the example of how Copernicus' notion
of the solar system was inspired by the old as-
trological image of man with the signs of the
Zodiac distributed about his body, and notices
how Copernicus uses warm-blooded expressions
to describe the chilly operations of outer space.
"The earth conceives from the sun" or "The
sun rules a family of stars." Our scientists are
no longer as anthropomorphic as that; but they
still depend on humanly comprehensible images,
and the valid symbols of our time, invented to
embody some scientific truth, have taken root
in the popular imagination. Do those red and
blue balls connected by rods really resemble a
type of atomic structure? I am too ignorant to
say, but I accept the symbol just as an early
Christian accepted the Fish or the Lamb, and
I find it echoed or even (it would seem) antici-
82
ART AND SOCIETY
pa ted in the work of modern artists like Kandin-
sky and Miro.
Finally there is the question of popular in-
terest and approval. The position of science in
the modern world illustrates clearly what I
meant by a vital relationship with society. Sci-
ence is front-page news; every child has a scien-
tific toy; small boys dream of space ships; big
boys know how to make a radio set. What does
a compulsory visit to an art museum mean com-
pared to this? .\n opportunity to fool about and
hide behind the showcases? .^nd, at the other end
of the scale, the research scientist has universities
competing for his favors with millions of
dollars' worth of plant and equipment, while
principalities and powers wait breathless for
his conclusions. So he goes to work, as Titian
once did. confident that he will succeed, be-
cause he knows that everybody needs him.
ELITE OR PRIESTHOOD?
SUCH are the conclusions which force them-
selves upon me when I examine, in the light
of history, the present relations of art and so-
ciety. Those who care for art and feel a sense
of loyalty to their own times may feel it their
duty to refute these conclusions, but I think they
will find it difficult to do so without straining
the evidence. Does this mean that a broadly
based social art is unlikely to appear for a long
time? I am inclined to think so. This is not as
catastrophic as it sounds. At least 90 per cent
of our fellow countrymen get on very well with-
out art, and I don't quite know why we shoidd
bother about them or try to persuade them to
take an interest. No one tries to persuade me
to take an interest in racing. .\nd yet some in-
stinct I can neither define nor defend makes
me believe that people without art are incom-
plete and that posterity will have a poor opin-
ion of them; and so I peer anxiously into the dark
scene I have described. This is what I find.
The fact that art is not only tolerated, but
actually supported by government and munici-
pal funds, although it is hardly worth a single
vote and practically no politician has the faint-
est belief or interest in it, shows that it has re-
tained some of its magic power. The unbelieving
majority still recognize that the believing mi-
nority, in picture galleries and concert halls,
achieve a state of mind of peculiar value. There
are very few jK'Oj)le who have never had an
aesthetic experience, either from the sound of a
band or the sight of a sunset or the action of a
horse. The words "beauty" and "beautiful" of-
ten pass the lips of those who have never looked
at a work of art— oftener, perhaps, than they pass
the lips of museum curators— and some meaning
must be attached to them.
I believe that the majority of people really
long to experience that moment of pure, disin-
terested, nonmaterial satisfaction which causes
them to ejaculate the word "beautiful"; and
since this experience can be obtained more re-
liably through Avorks of art than through any
other means, I believe that those of us who try
to make works of art more accessible are not
wasting our time. But how little we kno^v of
what we are doing. I am not even sure that
museum art and its modern derivatives, however
extended and skillfully contrived, will ever bring
about a healthy relationship between art and
society. It is too deeply rooted in cultural values
which only a small minority can acquire.
Here we reach Jthe crux of the problem: the
nature of the elite. It was my first conclusion
that art cannot exist without one, my second
that the elite must inspire confidence in the ma-
jority. During the last hundred years values in
art have been established by a minority so small
and so cut off from the sources of life, that it
cannot be called an elite in my sense of the word.
Let us call it a priesthood, and add that in pre-
serving its mysteries from the profanation of all-
conquering materialism, it has made them rather
too mysterious. There is something admirable in
all forms of bigotry, but I do not believe that
we can return to a healthy relationship between
art and society over so narrow a bridge. On the
contrary, I believe that our hope lies in an ex-
panding elite, an elite drawn from every class,
and with varying degrees of education, but
united in a belief that nonmaterial values can
be discovered in visible things.
Is it fatuous to interpret the large sale of books
on art and the relative success of certain tele-
vision programs as a sign that such an elite is
forming? But even if these are genuine snow-
drops, and not paper flowers stuck in the woods
by hopeful highbrows, many obstacles will re-
main. There is a lack of an iconography. There is
the glut of false art which blunts our appetites.
There is even the danger that true art may be
degraded through the media of mass communica-
tions. But I believe that all these obstacles can
be overcome if only the need for art, which lies
dormant and unperceived in the spirit of every
man, yet is manifested by him unconsciously
every day, can be united with the xoill to art
whidi must remain the endowment, and the re-
sponsibility, of the happy few.
Harper's Magazine, August 1961
UBLIC 8c PERSONAL
WILLIAM S. WHITE
The Good Old Summertime
0 what extent is the President
ned by circumstance? . . . And
t can the American people do to
in the freedom of choice — and the
lents of relaxation — that can make
present lives worth living?
ISHINGTON-There is no
e "good old Summertime." Per-
> there never will be again for us
jricans of the twentieth century—
pt, just possibly, for those who
now very young,
he old-time Summer, even in
pds of overhanging national crisis
listress, had in it some uncon-
able occasional quality of re-
tion and of rest. The phrase "in
^ood old Summertime" had real
ning, for example, in August of
' when the revolution known as
Vew Deal was taking identifiable
■e in this country. Much that
urgent was going on, to be sure,
there was cruel economic suffer-
All the same, a certain lazy
rfulness and fecklessness kept
king through, if only now and
To come forward a decade,
the August of 1943, when the
ish Isles were the focal point of
hopes and fears of all the West,
be seen in retrospect as still a
when tension sometimes took a
holiday and it was possible
;times to walk casually in Hyde
in London in the sun.
Here was a time when in a house
in London, an Allied military organ-
ism called Cossack was making plans
for history's greatest and bloodiest
cross-channel invasion. These, God
knows, were no calm days. But they
had a quality which the Western
World knows no more. This was the
quality of rational hope and con-
fidence that while the present was
frightful, it would pass. The night-
mare would at length be lifted and
the lights would go on again, all
over the world.
But now our Summertime, while
it offers no such violence and suffer-
ing, also offers no such hope. For the
Cold War is in its way a more ac-
cursed thing than was the Hot War.
From this latter a soldier could take,
a civilian in most lands of the earth
could take, somehow and sometime,
a leave and respite, however slight.
As a war correspondent accredited
to both American and British forces,
I was able to see something, now and
again, of the leaders of both coun-
tries. And in my recollection, I never
saw them so totally, so unsleepingly
driven by the problems of the world
as are our present leaders.
Lately I have had opportunities to
see these leaders simultaneously as
functioning officials and also simply
as men whom I have long known
and for whom I have personal
affection and a reasonably sym-
pathetic apperception of what they
intend to do officially, and how
they feel as human beings.
If I am any judge at all. President
Kennedy and Vice President John-
son are driven more compulsively
and more pitilessly than were those
predecessors who held our destinies
in their hands two decades ago.
True, Mr. Kennedy does not now
have to exercise active personal
responsibility for directing great
armies and fleets of sea and air in
mortal military operations about the
globe. But now he has many nights,
and days, which put an actually
heavier, if much more complex and
subtle, pressure upon his head
covered by that familiar mop of
heavy hair. To direct a Hot War
puts cruel demands indeed, upon
the commander. But for him there
is always the inner consciousness
that at one point or another action
will come and so, with a kind of
purgative force, end the intense,
febrile inner dialogue: What am I to
do? For Kennedy, and for all the
others engaged upon the Cold War,
there is no way, ever, to relieve the
fever.
I will long remember seeing Mr.
Kennedy at Glen Ora, his country
place in Virginia, on the Sunday
after the anti-Castro invasion of
Cuba had come to its inefl^ectual
end on the dreary beaches of an
island now lost to the West. Now,
too, the island has become a distant
small appendage to the Soviet bloc,
a shrill Communist megaphone
hanging on a jerry-built pole a long
way from the main prison camp.
The President had gone to Glen
Ora not to get away from it all, but
only for a weekend change of scene.
Probably he had gone as much be-
cause this was the expected thing to
do as from any desire to transfer the
burdens which lay on his mind from
1600 Pennsylvania Avenue in Wash-
ington to Middleburg, Virginia.
The President wore the "loafing"
uniform of our time, the symbols
which he puts on, as does many an-
other, in unconsciously wistful de-
termination to convince himself th;u
there are, in our time, still days o(
rest. That is, he wore a sweat shin
and chino pants and, as I remember,
a pair of GI walking shoes. He was
all dressed up for leisure and relaxa-
tion; but there was no place to go to
attain these precious boons. He had
only brought, intact, to Glen Ora
the pressures that pervade the White
84
House night and day; pressures,
moreover, which are new to the
human condition.
For these pressures cannot be met
with any real capacity of choice, any
genuine freedom to select objectively
between even reasonably clear alter-
natives. The imperatives of the last
Hot War were restrictive and diffi-
cult enough. But the imperatives of
the Cold War (and these imperatives
harden more and more, the longer
the Cold War persists) really leave
nothing open at all. They require
this President— as they would have
required Nixon had he won the elec-
tion and as they required Eisen-
hower in his time— to make every
kind of policy, foreign or domestic,
without true freedom of choice.
Talking that clay at Glen Ora in a
laconic, colloquial way as character-
istic of his private conversation as a
rather literary style is characteristic
of his public addresses, Mr. Kennedy
himself, as it seemed to me, strongly
illustrated this point.
The lost Cuban invasion was, of
course, his theme. (And this man,
so often presented as "cool" and
"contained," had unshed tears in his
eyes when he spoke of those Cuban
patriots who had died or been taken
prisoner by Castro.) But his concern
was larger than his anxious recollec-
tion of the mistakes that had been
made in this ill-fated enterprise. It
was larger, too, than his bitter recog-
nition that Castroism was now far
stronger than before. His ultimate
concern, it seemed as I listened to
him, lay in his sudden, jarring, and
half-paralyzing awareness that the
Presidency of the United States itself
was fettered by circumstances it
never ordered in a world it never
made.
He was not merely looking back
in sorrow (even in anguish) at what
might have been. He was not simply
shaken by massive errors in calcula-
tion. What bothered him most was
that he, the President, had no real
choice— in the light of the informa-
tion available to him at the time.
He could not in good conscience
halt the rebel movement. They were
keen, well trained, and ready. To
have strangled their plan at this
point would have meant the destruc-
tion and dispersal of a magnificent,
if small, fighting force with fighting
elan.
PUBLIC & PERSONAL
He could not postpone the land-
ings—or anyhow not for long. Cuban
pilots were then training behind the
Iron Curtain, Soviet planes and
other heavy armaments were stream-
ing into the island, and before long
Castro might well be strong enough
to beat off anything short of a full-
scale invasion by American forces.
Moreover, the rebels were the only
fighting force in existence anywhere
against Castroism, which Mr. Ken-
nedy felt (and rightly) to be a clear
and present danger to peace and
order in this hemisphere, and in the
world beyond. And the information
he had to go on, from the rebel
leaders and his own intelligence peo-
ple, indicated that the movement
had a better-than-even chance of
success.
But he could not, on the other
hand, permit the Armed Services of
the United States to give that sup-
port—sea, air, and logistical— which
could alone give any security to the
invading Cuban forces. This he
could not do because our Allies
would not have stood for it. Nor
woidd our "friends"— to use that
term loosely— in Latin America. So
he was, at the end, a man impris-
oned, a leader in gossamer but
unbreakable chains. He could nei-
ther forbid the adventure nor yet
give to it that assistance which it
must have.
TO BE OR NOT TO BE
INVOLVED
NOW, parenthetically, I am well
aware that many will reject this rea-
soning, on the ground that the Presi-
dent actually had an overmastering
first freedom of choice: the choice
"not to become involved in the thing
at all." With this argument I per-
sonally disagree; but whether or not
I do is not important in the context
of the realities. These realities are
that it is Mr. Kennedy who is Presi-
dent of the United States, not his
critics and not I; that it is Mr. Ken-
nedy who is responsible for the se-
curity and well-being of this country
and of this hemisphere; that Mr.
Kennedy had reached the conviction,
as President of the United States,
that Castroism was just such a men-
ace as I have described; that Mr.
KciHiedy, as PresidciU, bore ilie ter-
rible onus of taking this terrible risk
/
because on his judgment (which in
this matter was the only relevant
judgment) it had to be taken. Given
his convictions, and his singular re-
sponsibility, wherein was he reull^
free to make a free choice? (Mr.
Roosevelt twenty years before was
far more nearly free— to order, for
illustration, a bland but tough oc-
cupation of Iceland; to "lease" de-
stroyers to Britain and thus to com-
mit American naval forces to a war
we had not then entered.)
When I told a colleague about my
notion for this article he suggested
that my view of a vanished freedom
of choice and will was extreme.
What was happening, he believed,
was simply that this country was at
last becoming subject to those ex-
ternal factors which had always in-
hibited the policies of most other
"countries. While I see the force of
this point, I think it does not repudi-
ate my thesis. For this thesis is not
simply that freedom of choice has
been reduced in degree; I submit
that it has been effectively destro\e('
in principle.
I do not assert, of course, that
President and Congress and countr)
cannot make policy anymore; I assert
that they can make no policy of an
importance on the old bases of rea
sonably free will, judgment, an(
choice between rational alternati^c^
This state of affairs cannot be ex
plained sufficiently by our loss (
geographic and political isolation
So I assert that for the President, tin
Congress, and the country, there i
no rest, any time, as there used to b
some possibility to rest, even at ih
worst of times.
It is, of course, entirely correct t^
say that all Allies have always lia'
to submit partially to the wishes ant
notions of other Allies. But what i
new in kind, and not merely in de
gree, about the present position i
this: Never before has a single couii
try held so great a responsibility foi
so large a part of the common d(
fensc of so many countries— and
the same time held so little coi
mand authority. Without author
to command, responsibility beco
a capricious and undischargea
burden. And there is yet more to
For now we must approach
issues, perforce, not on their intrins|
merits, but only in automatic real
tion to the Cold War. We pond
II
PUBLIC & PERSONAL
1 to education not because educa-
•n is good and necessary; but
:her because we must not let the
issians "get ahead" of us. We de-
te Civil Rights not simply because
the ethical and legal implications;
t rather because we fear the Rus-
ns will make propaganda capital
our racial unfairness. We try to
to the moon not because this
»uld be one of the most splendid
ventures in all the story of man-
id; but rather because we must
at the Russians there. The United
ites government would not now be
empting the moon if there were
Soviet Union; we would not be
ing to hurl every lad of fourteen
to a physics class if there were no
viet Union.
BOY AND GIRL
COMMANDOS
J D E E D , Avith the loss of free
Igment (and to some unhappy ex-
it even of free debate), there is
other loss, the loss of innocence,
; final end of the good old Sum-
irtime, as it were. For our small
Idren talk familiarly, with a kind
jaded horror, of what might come
any moment from the skies; and
n they are thrown into the race
:h the Russians.
ioys and even girls in their early
ns are being given scholastic bur-
is which men of my college gener-
on— in our twenties— would have
arded as oppressive. They grind
ee and four hours a night. The
ool principal constantly tells
m that if they don't watch out
y won't get into "a good college"
i so will never, never be able to
ch up with the Russians. They
being made middle-aged before
y reach the age to vote.
see no point in claiming that
re is any discernible way out of
s state of affairs. There isn't; we
ist go on with the thing as it is
til— by Providence or by mad, un-
eseeable circumstance— some rest,
ae ease, some true freedom of
>ice may somehow return to this
rid. But it does seem to me that,
s being the situation, we might
at least to ameliorate it.
iver since I have had any capacity
atever for serious thought, I have
;n a convinced, a total, an indoc-
lated internationalist. Even as a
small boy, I remember my father
fuming at the pusillanimous refusal
of his own country to enter the first
world war in 1915 rather than wait
to be dragged into it in 1917. But
I, for one, am tired now of our na-
tional habit of worrying overmuch
about what "they" will think of us
if we do so and so. I believe we
should act with candor and honor to
preserve at least our own nation and
society, if we can preserve no other.
I think we should begin to consider
first what we really think of ori)-
selves. We should tell our children
to do a decent day's work at school,
to do a decent amount of homework
at night, and then to say to hell with
it— Radcliffe or no Radcliffe.
I think we should make our pub-
lic policies on what we believe to be
right, and not on what we think
right-thinking people elsewhere will
believe right— nor even on what the
Russians are driving themselves to
do. We should make up our minds
for good and all that, though we
face the distinct possibility of an-
nihilation, there is in the meantime
some living to do. I think we should
try to recapture some part of at least
one more good old Summertime-
even if the Russians land on the
blasted moon with Hammer and
Sickle in one hand and seven books
on advanced chemistry in the other.
Don't misunderstand me. I am
not urging teen-agers or college stu-
dents or their teachers to take it easy.
I mean to say that we shouldn't let
the Russians push us into doing
things against our own judgment;
that we should set our own goals,
and live our own lives, not simply
react to what they do. I believe we
should give more consideration to
the means of our lives and less to-
ward their putative ends. For I be-
lieve we can still have a humane, a
tolerant, a decent, way of life— if
only we will restore it. I think it is
better to die on our feet if it is to
come to that, as unterrified heirs of a
great tradition that believed in free-
dom and gaiety as well as in safely,
than to live always scrabbling wor-
riedly about on our confounded
knees. I think we can reclaim free
will, free choice, free judgment, if
only we will; and that these are
worth saving even if in the process
we lose a race that we might lose
anyhow.
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BOOKS
STANLEY KUNITZ
Some Poets of the Year
And Their Language of Transformation
Our reviewer this month is the winner of the
Pulitzer Prize for Poetry in 1959.
ON E of my nuclear friends recently con-
fessed to me that he had never really been
moved by a poem, that he had only the vaguest
conception of the nature and function of poetry,
and that in fact he had often wondered how any
man of intelligence— at which point he smiled
enigmatically— could find adequate nourishment
in the stuff. My brilliant friend is by no means
;i cultural barbarian. His taste in music and in
the visual arts is quite sophisticated, and during
his younger years he had been an assiduous
reader of fiction.
On this occasion the extent of his candor led
me to suspect that he was looking for informa-
tion, possibly even for help, so that I was happy
to be able to lend him the book that I had just
been reading, Elizabeth Sewell's The Orphic
Voice, subtitled Poetry and Natural History
(Yale, S7.50), which seemed made to order for his
specific inquiry. My optimism turned out to be
ill-founded. On returning the volume a fortnight
later, he remarked somewhat acidulously, "What
I need now is a poem to explain the book, if I
could understand the poem."
No doubt, Miss Sewell's work must be classi-
fied as esoteric, but I found it engrossing reading
just the same. A British philosopher and critic,
who has written admirable studies of Valery and
of the literature of nonsense. Miss Sewell con-
tends that poetry is our most inclusive form of
thought, the best instrument yet devised for deal-
ing with wholes, for unifying all the forms in
nature, whether they pertain to inner or outer
landscape. She approaches myth and poetry—
the two are intcrlrKkcd— as a liicroglyf)hic art in-
tcrpreiivc of ilic niysleries of nature, ";m art
going back to the duwn of language and rooted
iti it." What is poetry? "Language is j)octry, and
:i poem is only the resf>uj(es ol language used
to ill'- full."
Miss Sewell tra(es the ()ijihi( myth as ii aj)-
pears and reappears in the works of several
major Western writers in order to demonstrate
her theme that for the last four hundred years
poetry has been struggling to evolve and perfect
its biological function in the natural history of
mankind, that is, its unique capacity for thinking
about change, process, organisms, and life. The
countertendency in the modern world has been
a progress from imaginative and mythological
and poetic turns of speech toward the logical,
precise, nonfigurative. Even such luminaries as
Mallarme and Valery have followed the lead of
science into an impasse, marked by "a substitu-
tion of mathematics for poetry as the gauge of
exactitude and reliability in research." The
special responsibility of Orphic minds in our
time is "to begin the task of extending the range
of biology so that it shall include thinking man,
and to see how poetry can function as method-
ology in such a study."
Even the most ambitious of poets might well
be paralyzed by so formidable an assignment, but
Miss Sewell concludes her high enterprise on a
rather reassuring note: "There is no need to
think that only superlative poetry has any right
to survive or that lesser work is not good and
useful in our common explorations. It lies to
everyone's hand and we have to return to it, not
as a vague ornament of life but as one of the
great living disciplines of the mind, friendly to
all other disciplines, and offering them and ac-
cepting from them new resources of power."
This is not the place for an extended com-
mentary on the Orj)hic myth, which is only one
of the faces of the Dionysian archetype, or for a
detailed analysis of the ambiguities ol Miss
Sewell's own Orphic voice, by which her argu-
ment is not always advanced. I can only say that
the book impresses me despite my reservations,
and that F h;i\e had it much in mind in my
lecent reading.
For a geneial intioduciion to tlie subject of
poetry, most readeis will fnid Archibald Mac-
Leish's Poetry and Ex|K'rion<e (Houghton Mif-
lliii, Vl; more than ordinaiily hel]}lul. Mr.
THE NEW BOOKS
87
MacLeish has a gift for clear exposition and a
disarming way of discussing abstruse topics, in-
cluding words as sounds, words as signs, images,
and metaphor, as though they were simple coun-
ters in a familiar discourse. I like the story he
tells of the day when the Nobel Prize physicist.
Professor Paul Dirac, walked into his laboratory
and spotted young Robert Oppenheimer, re-
cently graduated from Harvard, among the ap-
prentices.
"Ah," said he, "I understand you combine the
writing of poetry with the study of physics."
Oppenheimer pleaded guilty.
"I simply don't understand it," sighed the
great man. "In science you try to say what no-
body has known before in such a way that every-
body will understand it, whereas in poetry . . ."
And he stalked out to a chorus of applauding
laughter. This is not, as it would seem, the end
of the parable, for MacLeish, whose words I have
been following, supplies an addendum:
"But when Ivor Richards heard the tale he
turned its author's triumph inside out with a
single word: 'Precisely!' And of course he was
right. In poetry you do try to say what every-
body has 'known before' in such a way that no-
body will 'understand' it, and when you succeed
you say something at least as significant as that
famous Second Law of Thermodynamics which
C. P. Snow has now established as the brain test
of the new literacy."
In the above passage MacLeish is at one with
Miss Sewell. On the other hand, he is impatient
with the prophetic claims of the inspired voice,
on which she lays so much stress. "For poetry,"
he asserts, in his chapter on Rimbaud, "is not
revelation and has no need to pretend it is.
Poetry is art and does what art can do— which is
as Lu Chi said, to trap heaven nnd earth in the
cage of form." And he quotes Maritain's chilling
admonition to those Prometheans who would try
to steal the divine fire in spite of God: "It is
madness to wish to have poetry alone in the
soul," for if poetry is alone in a soul "which is
claimed by nothing else and which offers no
opposition, it will develop a terrible appetite for
knowledge, a vampire's appetite, which will
drain all that is metaphysical and moral from
the man and even all his flesh."
Perhaps the contradiction here is largely one
of emphasis. "We shall be lost," writes Miss
Sewell, "if we let ourselves be persuaded . . .
that poetry is unconcerned about what is going
on in the world and in ordinary life, or that the
poet's life is wholly separated from what he has
to say. Poetry is a discipline of full involvement
in life, not of withdrawal from it." Most poets
bear with remarkable grace their inability to
attract mobs of readers; what infuriates them is
the ignorant assumption that their unpopularity
is to be attributed to the irrelevance or frivolity
of what they have to say.
We tend not to concede that poets have a
wisdom to share with us until they have grown
old and venerable, although in fact the wisdom
of poetry has nothing to do with age. The cur-
rent apotheosis of Robert Frost is a case in noint.
And in England Robert Graves, after producing
poems for more than forty-five years, is elected
to the Chair of Poetry at Oxford, succeeding
W. H. Auden, and suddenly finds himself ac-
claimed at sixty-six as the darling of the younger
poets. Freshness, candor, and idiosyncrasy have
always been his hallmarks, but for most of his
career these qualities have only served to prevent
him from being accepted as an official poet, a
member of the Establishment. His first-rate, in-
dependent mind has been replenished by an
astonishing curiosity, often unabashedly erotic,
and reinforced by courage. Even his wealth of
mythic lore has been put to impudent, though
none the less serious, uses. As Walter Allen re-
cently observed, "He is, one feels, as much a
moral as a poetic example."
What makes Graves particularly attractive to
the young, into whose generation he has escaped,
is his invincible elan, his non-rhetoric corres-
ponding with his non-conformity, his refusal to
strike imposing attitudes. One can learn from
him what Rilke learned from Goethe: "I need to
realize that greatness is not superhuman exer-
tion but naturalness." The new edition of
Graves' Collected Poems (Doubleday, $5.95) con-
tains approximately 270 poems, of which some
50 are subsequent to the 1955 collection. "The
Face in the Mirror" is a good example of Graves'
direct later style:
Grey haunted eyes, absent-mindedly glaring
From wide, uneven orbits; one brow drooping
Somewhat over the eye
Because of a missile fragment still inhering.
Skin deep, as a foolish record of old-world fighting.
Crookedly broken nose— low tackling caused it;
Cheeks, furrowed; coarse grey hair, flying frenetic;
Forehead, wrinkled and high;
Jowls, prominent; ears, large; jaw, pugilistic;
Teeth, few; lips, full and ruddy; mouth, ascetic.
I pause with razor poised, scowling derision
At the mirrored man whose beard needs my attention,
And once more ask him why
He still stands ready, with a boy's presumption.
To court the queen in her high silk pavilion.
THROUGH all the divagations of his career,
since he appeared on the scene in the early
'thirties as one of the Oxford galaxy, Louis Mac-
Neice has never forfeited his position as a poet
of first rank. Like Graves, though without his
audacity, he has striven for a voice at once casual
and lyric, of sufficient energy to deal with topical
and dialectical materials, but at the same time
responsive to his more traditional moods of
nostalgia and loss. Perhaps because of this im-
certainty of direction, the voice has not wholly
88
.luvooaoa in d.uitMUg iisolt or in
indiviauaiino it. lompov. though
il.o incviMhlo .intholo-N pKVO.
nuKih ol o.nlioi vini.i-v. vomam
to ho chc.ishoa. as ao iho latoi
ana lon-oi cxausions inio moving
coulosional naivaiiNC The poems
,hat siana up host au those that aoal
with his North Ivelaua boxho.xl. his
creative sou.ve--l was the reetor s
.on. horn to the anohean oraer./
Raunea forever irom the eaiules ot
,he Irish ixHM-'-or that rot\eet a
poUtical passion, or that roek spon-
taneoush into a strouii heat:
It's no oo iho nionvooivund. it's no ?o
the rickshaw.
All wo want is a limousine and a tuku
for the poepshow.
Uvu -UaiipiiK Musie." which never
stops skirliuii trom beginning to eml.
is one ol those founa" poems, the
hukv strike ol a worUl ana of a time,
that caturot he fouiul again even m
ihe unlikx:lN event that the pt>et
^^oula gv> UH>king for ii. From the
hoav of his ^vork M.uNoice has se-
Untea Eightv-Five Poems (^Oxlora,
k1.:>0^. of which the earliest is dated
UVJ7. ana the latest 193S.
lOHN lUTlFMANS aut.v
bioijraphN in vei-^e. Summoned bv
Btdls (^Houghion Mitllm. ^:> • v^''> -»
smashing siueess in Enghma. Thi>
account.' carried through the Oxford
NeaiN. -of some moments in the
sheUereil life of a middle-class
Nouth" is written in a smooth-llow-
iusi blank vei^^e that blends famih
anmlotes. bicvcle trips, first loves
and teas. Cornish holidaxs. schwl-
bin pranks, antiquarian and literarv
pui^uiis. and tributes ti> old friends
and teachei>i into a mixture that
is sometimes poignant. fret|ueiuly
comic, and alwaxs readable. It is a
W ordsworthian Prrludr wiihiHii the
philosophic weight or the Orphic
intensitx What American ixtec. one
wonders. ct>uld prixiucc a work of
iluN comjxtence and stale out ot
such blaiul m-.teiials? Or. it. pt>se
ihc qucMion diJicrenih. wh\ is it
ihat t' l«*-t^^h ♦^^ conditions Un
the c; e of a |xxM in this coun
,\ would seem lo tx 'ectetl
,hiMhood, a decorous I ""'-
THE NE>\ nOOKS
torn between several choices, not in-
chuling the one that eventuatea. but
1 think that lUN consulerea vote
wouia h.ive gone to Richard I ber-
hut lor his Collmed Poems 19M)-
\m) ^Oxford. Sh^. including fiftv-one
rcw poemv. In an autobiographical
sketch published a few voais ago.
Vberhart revoalea the kiiul ot cir-
cnmstaiu-o ana vision thai is most
likelv to aisturb a twentieih-contur\
American into art:
What probahlv made me a poet
\vas the death of mv mother, at fortv-
ois^ht. «^r cancer of the lung, ^vho.i
T ""was eighteen. 1 witnessed mti-
matelv her nine-month birth of death
throuJih utmost pain. I lived the al-
Uh^mv of life in that time.
M\ f.nh-r was the son of a Meth-
odist minister. He became the vice
president of Geoi-ge A. Hormel JL- Co.
He was betraved bv the nonnious Cv
Th«M«pson. who embe/zkxl over a
Tnillion dollars from the companv. Mv
father lost his fortune, hut not his
spirit, his vast recuperative powers,
his sense of humor, or his t>owerful
love of life. He was formidable, lai-ge.
epical, inviolable, a masterful man.
The violent chan£ris in mv earlv
world subsixiueiuh dnne me around
the world and to C.ambridiie I'nivor-
siiv in search of truth. The spirit of
poetrv is the nearest I have ever
come to its pn^found but subtle
evanescences.
I
I K I hatl hat! an\
the award of the 1
p.wii\ this Ncai. 1 s
> ilo willi
Pri/c (or
I1.1VC l>ern
El^erhart is a prolific and uneven
p<xn. but he has written at least a
handful of poems-sufficient lor a
lifetime-ihat are incomparabh pure
and radiant. Even in the midst of
the flawed and sometimes banal
verses, one can never be quite sure
when the spirit will strike and the
sparks begin to flv. To him the nat-
ural world is full of wondei^ and
delights, and language is vet another
nature. The irans|xMt that he feels
in the midst of life is a spontaneous
breath, which he c;uinot exhaust or
git>w tired of. His unique position
among us is to be the pcxn of the un-
j..ded"c\e. the unsuUen heart. ^Vho
else could title one of his jx^ems "A
Ship Binning and a Comet All in
One Da\"?
He is usually at his best when he
fuses, into aii essential harmonN.
inner and outer lamUcajx. the visual
and the \isionan. the particular and
,he u! FquiNalence of Gnats
and M >ne «»l his new iHieins.
provides an example:
\s I pillar ol s;nats. moving up and down
ui lane air. toward opulent sunset.
Weaving themselves in and out. up
and down.
As diaplKuious as visual belief.
In scintillant imagination, is slightest
dancing.
Weaves a major hannonv oi nature:
\s tiuN fuid mice are saved from the
sickle
B\ .1 lean seven tv-vear-old sother m
Maine
Wlio brings them in. savin-. "Thev have
enemies enough":
Who are hand fed bv a dn^pper on mill
and water.
Hoping vhe small creatures will sur^-.ve
and thrive.
Slight event against the history- of
justice.
\x is necessan- to hail delicacv
Whenever encountered in nature
or man:
No dishamionv come near this poem.
RANDALL I ARRFLL-Sfilth
volume of verse. The \Voman aj jhe
\Vashington Ztw ^Atheneum. S5./:.).
:v inner of the National Btnik Award
for Poetrv. contains nineteen new
pi^ms and twelve translations. In
the title-piece, with a dramatic single
stroke in the opening line--Thc
saris ijo bv me from the embassies -
a colorful and cosmopolitan work'
is evoked. The next movement 1^
toward the dark, for the speaker whc
stands before the cages, this govern
mem clerk in her "dull null naNA.
knows that the colors and the p>>
sibilitv of colors have been washe.
out of her life. She senses her kn
ship with and xet her difterence fron
the animals.
these beings trappet
As 1 am trapped but not. themselves
the trap.
Aging, but without knowledge of thei
age.
Kept safe here, knowing not of death.
for death—
Oh. bars of mv own bixlv. t^pen. open.
ErapiKxl in her loneb and defeatej
tlesh. she i> woi-se off than the ca|
tive beasts, for "the world gix-s t
mv cage and ncNcr sees me." Nor
she visitetl. as are the beasts, by iha
who feed on their leavings: sparrov
pigei>ns. buzzards. Her life is tc
starveil for leavings. What a grl
world: What a bleakness! And ju
when we arc read> to turn awa
THE NEW BOOKS
Jarrell does something magical and
triumphant with his woman at the
foo. He has her cry out, addressing
the predatory bird who is the figure
of lover-death, such words of shame-
less agony that the despair is trans-
formed into a kind of tragic exalta-
tion, and the true colors of the
world, terrible though they may be,
pour back into the poem:
Vulture,
When you cf)mc for the white rat that
the loxcs left,
Take off the red helmet of your head,
the black
Wings that have shadowed me, and step
to me as man:
The wild lirothcr at whose feet the white
wolves fawn.
To whose hand of power the great
lioness
Stalks, purring. . . .
You know what I was,
You see what I am: change me,
change me!
In a sense all the voices in all of
Jarrell's poems are crying, "Change
:ne!" The young yearn to be old in
jider to escape from their nocturnal
ears; the old long for the time of
heir youth, no matter how poor and
'iTiiserable it was, for "in those days
ijverything was better"; life is mov-
■ ng toward the death; the dead are
'Inoving back into life, and wherever
hey come, they come in disguises.
'^^ t is a world of shifts and changes,
"as in a fairy tale, and the only reason
^ ou suspect it is more is that Cinder-
11a and the Dwarfs and the Frog
rince are just as real and as
roubled as the zoo woman or your
"Aunt Nan. Karl Shapiro once
""■cutely observed that Jarrell's "al-
lost obsessive return to the great
j^hildhood myths is sometimes as
ainful as psychoanalysis," and that
le subtitle of his work might well
die "Hansel and Gretel in America."
l^hat Hansel and Gretel tell us is
lat the woods are dark and that the
"eatures who inhabit them change
leir skins. In the mythic imagina-
j, on, as defined by Elizabeth Sewell,
pietamorphosis is the great theme
l^,nderlying all others. "Self-trans-
• )rmation," commented Rilke, whom
,jj|irrell translates nine times in this
)lume, "is precisely what life is."
,,, Y remarks on the poets that fol-
w must, of necessity, be brief, but
le brevity is not to be taken in it-
If as a form of judgment:
I
I
I
I
SAUL BELLOW
in Esquire ... on Khrushchev
He lives under an iron necessity to be
right. What he perhaps remembers best
about men who were not right is their
funerals.
in Esquire ...on DeGaulle
If he were to die, to depart or to be de-
posed by force before bringing about an
honorable end to the Algerian war, then
France would become another Spain, sub-
jected to a Franco-like dictatorship.
BURT GUNN
in Esquire ... on Otto Preminger
In an industry whose poet laureate is
Louella Parsons, whose foreign policy
spokesman is Spyros Skouras, and whose
red badge of courage is a small seal indi-
cating compliance with a moral code laid
down by Warren Harding's Postmaster Gen-'
eral, a Preminger can become a giant by
default.
G0EE VI DAL
in Esquire ... on social climbing
Although it is possible to live a successful
life in the United States without ever no-
ticing class differences, for those so-
minded our social structure is actually
every bit as complex and hieretic as the
ancient Byzantine court . . . "Inequality,"
observed William Dean Hov/ells somewhat
unexpectedly, "is as dear to the American
heart as liberty itself."
DOROTHY PARKER
In Esquire ... on historical novels
I wish people would either write history,
or write novels, or go out and sell nylons.
WILLIAM K. ZINSSER
in Esquire ... on 0. H. Lawrence
He could not stand to be touched. He evi-
dently was not homosexual but anti-sexual,
repelled by intimacy of any kind and ex-
ceedingly uncomfortable with women, per-
haps because he grew up in a family of
males and spent his life in male occu-
pations.
JOHN CROSBY
in The New York Herald-Tribune
... on Esquire
Esquire assumes you're a part of the avant
garde, or otherwise what are you doing
reading the magazine? This is marvelously
flattering, and it seems to be working
with a vast number of readers.
Not since the halycon days of Vanity
Fair has any magazine become such a re-
pository for what is controversial, com-
pelling and colorful. Even rival publica-
tions doff their hats to today's new
Esquire: The Nation calls it "the best-
edited mass magazine being published in
the United States." If you haven't taken a
look at Esquire recently, the coupon below
offers you an economical way to sample
its new features and fiction, delight in its
striking new artists and photographers,
take pleasure in its many typographic and
layout innovations. Mail the coupon today,
and your subscription will include without
extra cost Esquire's famed $l-a-copy year-
end annual — a Jubilee Edition put together
with such Medici splendor that previous
issues have become collector's items.
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I Clip and mail today to Dept, 0960 Esquire, Boulder, Colorado I
.STATL
90
Ho^sard NemeroA. New and Se-
lected Poems (University o£ Chicago,
$3.50). . . . The adjective for this col-
lection of some sixty poems is fine,
applicable to craft, intelligence,
sympathy, and wit. It would be diffi-
cult to imagine so consummate an
artificer writing a wholly bad poem
-is that a weakness? The urbanity
of the tone is often a mask for the
depth of the feeling. Syntax, like
mind, is supple. Occasionally the
diction turns stiff or literary: "And
yet there is the horror of the fact,/
Though we knew not the man." On
the whole, the new poems are Nem-
erov's best.
Charles Olson, The Distances
(Grove, 31-75). . . . The themes are
sex, civilization, and art, mostly the
last, for nearly all of Olson's work is
a form of Poetics, though not of the
dismal school, being full of beans.
For years Olson has been a hero of
the avant-garde and the private
presses, though unknown to the com-
mon reader. He will no longer have
the pleasure of working under-
ground. His object: "to cut this new
instant open." How? By declaring
war on iambics and rhyme ("the
dross of verse"); by striving for an
open organic form ("no line must
sleep"); by producing a live look on
the page, with benefit of typography;
by insisting, sometimes in Latin, that
the idiom must be colloquial; by
professing inside information about
history and women; by attacking
fools and enemies and false ances-
tors; by sounding direct and walking
tangential; by paying homage to
Confucius-Pound:
Words, form
but the extension of
content
THE NEW BOOKS
Style, est verbum
The word
is image, and the reverend reverse is
Eliot
I'ouikI
is verse
P O K T S arc the first to concede
that the translation of poetry is an
impossibility, but the knowledge
docs not deter them from the elfori.
In lact, iriosi poets are used to living
with impossibility, since it is forever
iiriplicit in the threat of their next
jjoem. To regard translation as pri-
marily an educative task is to under-
estimate its significance. The change
of a poem from one language mto
another is, at bottom, an act of trans-
formation, a living metaphor for the
whole mythic process that is the root
of poetry. The best translations ar?
born of love, and both parties to the
contract must be expected to yield
a portion of their identity. The great
activity in translation that marks
our age is a process of unification at
the deepest level that may well out-
weigh in the end the failures of
diplomacy. For a demonstration of
the problems inherent in this ac-
tivity, no more illuminating text can
be recommended than The Poem It-
self (Holt, $6.50), edited by Stanley
Burnshaw, in association with Dud-
ley Fitts, Henri Peyre, and John F.
Nims. Forty-five poets of the last
hundred years, writing in French,
Spanish, German, Italian, and Por-
tuguese are here presented, not in
verse translations, but in the original
language, accompanied by a literal
rendering and a detailed prose com-
mentary on the word-stuff of each
poem. The design of this elaborate
project, as opposed to re-creation in
verse, is frankly pedagogic, but no
student of foreign literature can af-
ford to miss this book.
Robert Fitzgerald's translation of
The Odyssey (Doubleday, $4.95) is
destined to become the standard one
for this generation. Poet and classi-
cal scholar, he has turned the great
Homeric hexameter into a blank-
verse line that is at once strong and
easy, eloquent and relaxed, capable
of rendering the domestic scenes
without flatness and of rising to
heroic levels without strain. Paren-
thetically, the Greeks, above all the
modern Greeks, are very much with
us this year. Rae Dalven has given
us, for the first time in English, The
Complete Poems of Cavafy (Har-
court, Brace, $6.75), 187 poems of
the Alexandrian sybarite who died
in 1933, explorer of the corrupt
alleys of the heart, glittering witness
to the sickness unto death, in whose
art the rituals of purification are
dispassionately performed. A poet of
comparable stature, though of a dif-
ferent order, is George Seferis, Greek
ambassador to London- where are
our poel-aml)assadors?-whose collec-
tion of Poems (Little, Brown,
$3.75), iranslaied by Rex Warner,
makes evident why he is acknowl-
B
edged to be one of the three or four J"
most important living European
poets. Seferis' work is mythic and
cosmic, but saved from grandiosity
by the beautiful rigor of his style.
He is quoted as saying, "In my
poverty is my strength." Though
they speak of and to contemporary
man, his poems draw sustenance
from the ancient world and Seferis
himself as protagonist is often
metamorphosed into a sea captani
who is the ghost of Odysseus. Both
Cavafy and Seferis appear, amon^
others, in Six Poets of Modev
Greece (Knopf, $5), translated I
Edmund Keeley and Philip Sherrarc'
editors of infallible taste, whose i
troduction and notes are exceeding!
informative.
From the French we have at las;
in Robert Lowell's pellucid heroic
cctuplets a translation of Racine's
Phaedra (Farrar, Straus, $5) that is
worthy of its source. Lowell has
tried, as he says, for "an idiomatic
and ageless style," adapted from the
meter of Dryden and Pope. The
English-speaking theatre will be
richer for the redemption of a
masterpiece that has previously lost
its glory in translation. The same
volume contains an energetic prose
translation, by Jacques Barzun, of
Beaumarchais' Figaro's Marriage. ^
With his left hand, so to speak, j ^
Robert Fitzgerald has translated Tl
Chronique (Pantheon, $3) by the
Nobel Prize-winner St.-John Perse,
who has been fortunate in his trans-
lators ever since T. S. Eliot intro-
duced his Anabasis more than thirty ;
years ago. Chronique may be read as
the valedictory of a poet in his mid-
seventies. In his characteristically
high, resonant, and multi-layered
style, with which Fitzgerald's more
Apollonian voice has occasional diffi-
culties, St.-John Perse addresses "the
great age" here and to come from the
height of his own "great age." In
some respects the most personal ant!
poignant of his works, folded in
memories of his tropic childhood,
heavy with the thought of tasks <!«"«
and tasks uncompleted, Chronique, ^
nevertheless bespeaks the poet's dig
nity and faith as he breathes the an
of a grand destiny:
Listen, O night, in the deserted court
yards and under the solitary ardies
amid the holy ruins and the crumblmi
of old termite iiills, hear the grea
He
nil
oin
Dill
Be
^1
\
BOOKS IN BRIEF
sovereign foollalls ol the soul without a
(air,
Like a wild beast prowling a pave-
nent of bronze.
*
Great age, behold us. Take the meas-
ire of man's heart.
N the vein of valedictory I cannot
esist the temptation to quote an un-
orgettable quatrain by Paul Dehn
n his Quake, Quake, Quake, A
Leaden Treasury of English Verse
Simon & Schuster, $3.50), aptly de-
cribed by the publisher as "hair-
aising parodies of familiar verses,"
vith equally fiendish illustrations by
idward Gorey:
) nuclear wind, when wilt thou blow
That the small rain down can rain?
hrist, that my love were in my arms
And I had my arms again.
BOOKS
in brief
ATHERINE GAUSS JACKSON
FICTION
he Delights of Detection, edited
nd with an introduction by Jacques
arzun.
To read Mr. Barzun's introduction
these seventeen stories is to be
ost pleasurably cued into the se-
cts of the art of literary detection,
nd pleasure is, as he points out, the
'ry heart of the matter. For Mr.
arzun (as opposed to W. H. Auden,
ho prefers them long) detective fic-
)n reaches the height of its perfec-
3n in the short story (though he
lints out the pitfalls here too) and
makes a brilliant case for his
Mnt of view. For him the literature
detection deals, strictly speaking,
ly with detection. The "psycho-
gical novels of suspense" (though
admires some) are not of the
nre. Perhaps the best way to give
e flavor of his argument is in a
ies of quotes:
What is required is that the main
interest of the story should consist
in finding out, from circumstances
largely physical, the true order and
meaning of events that have been
part disclosed and part concealed.
Crime is attractive but incidental.
Mr. Barzun doesn't read detective
stories to discover "real characters,"
or to "appreciate the moral burdens
of the times," or to explore "some
unfamiliar region of the world":
The tale may teach nothing but its
own neatness, and its effect then is to
bring a smile to the lips rather than
a commotion to the soul. . . .
What do we gain from the details
of detection? An understanding, first,
of the silent life of things, and next,
of the spectacle of the mind at work.
This is no doubt why detective feats
have been, since Voltaire and Poe,
the delight of intellectuals. The emo-
tion called forth is that of seeing
order grow out of confusion. . . .
To sum it all up without going
into the refinements of his argument
or into his disctission of style which
is a delight in itself:
The detective story is a tale. The
pleasure it affords is that of any nar-
rative in which the ancient riddle of
who is who unravels itself to an ac-
companiment of worldly wisdom. In
the detective tale proper there is
a doul)le satisfaction answering a
double curiosity— what can the solu-
tion be? and how was the solution
arrived at? But to recapture this in-
nocent pleasure one must be sophisti-
cated enough to abdicate other
sophistications.
The book includes seven "classic
tales," seven "modern tales," and
three "historic tales." A "hostess"
present that the donor can be the
first to enjoy. Criterion, $5.95
Best Detective Stories of the Year,
edited by Brett Halliday.
This annual collection of twenty
short stories is chosen by a man who
has no complicated method of selec-
tion. "I don't know what my own
standards are for judging a story," he
says. "Above all else, I think, I de-
mand that the writer have a story to
tell. [See Mr. Barzun's italicized
'tale.'] Then he must tell it well.
Catching my interest with the open-
ing paragraph, and keeping me read-
ing eagerly to the final word. Each
of these stories does exactly that." If
this isn't recommendation enough,
may I remind all mystery buffs that
Mr. Halliday is the creater of Mike
Shayne. Button, $3.95
The Wycherly Woman, by Ross
Macdonald.
Since I don't often have time to
American
Perspectives
THE NATIONAL
SELF-IMAGE IN
THE TWENTIETH
CENTURY
Robert E. Spiller and Eric
Larrabee, Editors. Com-
ments from an unusually
lively group of experts range
skillfully over American emo-
tional and intellectual trends,
ideological and technical
changes, as reflected in mul-
tiple facets of our national
culture from 1900 to 1950.
Library of Congress Series in
American Civilization $4.75
Jfl
At all booksellers
ARVARD
Cambridge 38, Mass.
distinctive
and unusual
CHRISTMAS
CARDS
A. new catalogue of the famous Metropolitan
Museum cards — each one based on a work of
art from the Museum's own collections. This
year, a Japanese goldsmith's sketch, a rubbing
from a medieval church bell, five prancing
deer from a patchwork quilt, a carved golden
angel, a jeweled book cover from an Armenian
manuscript, and a Victorian Christmas illus-
tration are some of the sources of the nearly
sixty new designs. -^ All of the cards are
printed under the direct supervision of the
Metropolitan Museum in limited editions,
and cost from 5 to 95 cents each. They can
be bought only by mail or at the Museum
itself. The catalogue — which also illustrates
Museum jewelry and other unusual Christmas
presents-will be mailed about September 1st.
The Metropolitan Museum of Art
253 Grade Station, New York 28
Please send me the Museum's new catalogue
of Christmas cards, 25 cents enclosed H l
Name.
Address .
92
read detective fiction and am in no
wav knowledgeable about its fine
points, I find myself easily persuaded
to try to apply Mr. Barzun's criteria
to those stories I've read-this month.
Of course the books noted below are
none of them short stories and so by
very size at once escape the bounds of
his fairly rigid definitions of what
the detective story is and what it is
not. Yet they are, as books go,
shorter than most and manage to
keep pretty hard on the trail of
whatever mystery they pursue even
when the classic unities are cjuite
ignored and the chase covers rather
large areas and, in at least one
case, considerable time. ... In The
Wychrrly Woman the solution of a
mysterious disappearance and violent
death in and around San Francisco
is master-minded by Lee Asher in
suave and charming fashion. Humor
and sophistication are in the writing
as well as in the plot. (Mr. Barzun
says, "The true tone of the genre
springs from the alliance of murder
and mirth. The laughter is a touch
sardonic and must never degenerate
into hilarity. The joke of death is on
us.") The pursuit is physically and
intellectually exciting, the lost lady
is a young girl, the death-well, see
for yourself and enjoy it all the way.
Ross Macdonald is the author of
The Ferguson Affair and The Gal-
lon Case. Knopf, $3.50
One for My Dame, by Jack Webb.
Here, in the background experi-
ence of our "hero," the narrator and
self-appointed sleuth in this story, we
have at once what Mr. Barzun calls
one of the "moral burdens" of our
time, and not as a minor factor
either. Rick Jackson spent more
than two years in a POW camp on
the Yalu River where he learned all
there was to know about brain-wash-
ing, violence, and death, so that his
reactions as he meets these terrors
in the story, are pretty well con-
ditioned. But it is all very much an
integral part of the plot. From the
time of Rick's release from prison
;ind his return home till the night
the story begins, lie has in a sense
retired from the human race. He
owns a pet shop where tropical fish
iire his passion and lives alone in a
small apartment above the shop with
VVf>lf, a great Dane, a sqiiiiiel
monkey (mIIk! riii;i. and a niyna
BOOKS IN BRIEF
bird whose language he is trying to
clean up. How did such a recluse get
involved with a beautiful girl, num-
berless murders in, of all places, a
mortuary, and a West Coast branch
of political underground? Those are
the questions which are unraveled
in this mad and romantic tale. With
all these elements it surely is not one
of Mr. Barzun's classic tales but it is
written with enough speed and flair
to make the distractions seem not
red herrings but the very stuff of his
plot. Mr. Webb's former heroes, I'm
told, have been Father Shanley and
Sammy Golden. I've never read of an
amateur detective who took more of
a physical beating than his new hero,
Rick Jackson, does in this book, but
as he's survived it with such hu-
morous bounce there's no reason
why he shouldn't have a big future.
Rinehart, $2.95 .
guerrilla warfare; the native groups
struggle among themselves; and a
sense of imminent change hangs ovei
all. The characters are "real" ai;
right, and so is the political anc
geographical atmosphere. It is wel
written and well translated and fo
those who like their murders mixet
with honest soul-searching, this is it
Farrar, Straus & Cudahy, $3.9p
ordei
' illia:
'ems
)od,[
Etecti
ns: ;
illol
rittei
NON-FICTIOr
Barbarian's Country, by Jean Houg-
ran, translated by Geoffrey Sains-
bury.
Although this novel follows the
definition of good detective fiction
in starting with a murder whose
solution leads on to the end, it strays
from the classic since before we are
through we have certainly explored
an "unfamiliar region of the world"
(contemporary Indochina) and the
narrator, a young Frenchman, is
much more concerned with discover-
ing his own identity and the true
character of his hated-and mur-
dered-father than he is in finding
the murderer. To Mr. Barzun I
think this would be unbearable dis-
traction, but it is the very essence of
this novel. Philippe Couvray, son of
a rich coffee planter and mine owner,
has been born and brought up in
Southeast Asia in a conservative
colonial atmosphere. Even as a child
and ever after, Philippe has dis-
agreed with his father on social and
political attitudes and they have
treated each other with open hos-
tility. So it is a great surprise to
everybody when, after the murder, it
is discovered that the whole fortune
and property have been left not to
an adored sister but to Philippe. He
determines to return to the plan-
tation in North Indochina where he
grew up to search for the secret of his
fniher's life and his own. There is
niu(h of modern politics here; the
Connnunists are waging constant
Lizzie Borden: The Untold Stor)
by Edward D. Radin.
This is not fiction. It is deductioi
based on real facts, real clues, re^t
records, of murders that happene
more than half a century ago in Fa!
River, Massachusetts, yet in its bri
liant pursuit of a solution to an ui
solved crime and in its literary grac
one must certainly include it amon
books which furnish "delights of d
tection." Indeed on the jacket M
Barzun himself says: "Anyone wh
thinks he knows the Borden ca
from earlier accounts finds hei
novelty on every page and cann«
help recasting his conclusions." . .
In 1924 Edmund Pearson wrote h
book about Lizzie Borden and sin
then nearly everything that has be<
written about the famous hatch
murders has been based on what 1
wrote. In his view Miss Borden w
guilty of the double murder of h
father and step-mother in 1892. Ai
this in spite of her acquittal at t
trial.
Mr. Radin, a veteran newspap
-eporter of murder trials, has tw
won "Edgars" from the Myst(^
Writers of America for fact-crime
porting. He read Mr. Pearson's bo
and was struck by what seemed |
him to be inconsistencies in the
port of the testimony. He beca:
interested in the case; he talked
everyone still alive who remembei
the trial and Lizzie Borden; he o
suited the only known copy of '
official minutes of the Fall Ri
court hearing; compared what
found in the original court reco
with Mr. Pearson's book; and cor
up with an extraordinary and m
convincing document. The chai
be I
nun
ters are better drawn than in m;|^^
novels as Mr. Radin reveals the f:
about them, and he recreates
atmosphere of Fall River in the
summer of the murders so thai
T
! !iithi
I lishe
liha
thi
e
iton
An(
.1 :ent
hed
m
I II of
iHiier
rec
I er
ie.l
iiiov
IH:
IS
ems as breathless and ready for
I olence as it must have been. The
cture of daily life, habits, clothes,
od, plumbing, etc., the very stuff of
'tection, should delight histor-
ns; and the story as he tells it is
'1 of relentless excitement though
tten with quiet understatement
ked up with well-established fact.
•> book is a strong defense of Lizzie
)rden; he demolishes Pearson in a
lliant chapter which still manages
be deferential and polite; and he
i another remarkable chapter sug-
ting who the real murderer might
The book is full of all sorts of
uthing satisfactions and one
ishes it feeling utterly identified
h an era and a place as well as
h the cast of characters in two of
most baffling murders in police
tory. Simon & Schuster, $4.50
BOOKS IN BRIEF
Another examination of a more
cut trial and murder will be pub-
led by McKay in mid-August. The
ppard Murder Cose is by Paul
Imes and has a foreword by Erie
nicy Gardner ($4).]
t of My League, by George Plimp-
his brief account of an amateur's
inent of dubious glory on the
hing mound of the Yankee Sta-
in is far more than just a night-
e or another book about base-
; it is high comedy of the most
nizing and gripping sort. The
lor, consumed with a desire to
w what it feels like to pitch un-
major-league conditions, ar-
?ed with the help of $1,000 put
by Sports Illustrated, to face a
i^r of National and American
?ue batters before an all-star
e. He is, obviously, a better than
age athlete, but he keeps train-
no better than most authors, and
aioment of truth on the mound
the days and hours that precede
aove with the awful (but con-
tly entertaining) inevitability of
reek tragedy. Anyone who has
played baseball in a sand lot or
has sat on the bench half hop-
and half fearing that he may be
m a game will find that there is
rt of him that is Mr. Plimpton.
Harper, $3.50
-n, the Red-eyed Vireo, by Mil-
White. With an introductory
poem by Ogden Nash. Illustrated by
F. B. Modell.
This little book is not only funny
as any good spoof on bird watchers
is bound to be; it is gracefully writ-
ten and oddly and surprisingly
touching as well. So don't just read
Ogden Nash's introductory poem
and let it go at that. Not that read-
ing "Up from the Egg: The Con-
fessions of a Nuthatch Avoider" isn't
an experience in itself. Any poem
that begins . . .
Bird watchers top my honors list.
I aimed to be one but I missed.
and ends . . .
But I sometimes visualize in my gin
The Audubon that I audubin.
is bound to be equally rewarding
through its middle, as this one most
surely is. Just don't stop there. The
whole book is a real pleasure.
Doubleday, $2.75
FORECAST
Series of Series
I find it impossible myself to keep
up with names and subject matter
of the new groupings of paperbacks
and other publications, but I am al-
ways glad to be exposed to them at
least once. Lippincott has just
launched a series called Keystone
Short Stories at $1.65. (They also
come in hard covers at $3.50.) The
first three publications are The
Dignity of Night by Klaus Roehler,
Color of Darkness, by James Purdy,
and The Games of Night, by Stig
Dagerman. The Purdy is a reprint;
the others are originals. There will
be four more titles in the fall.
In September, Doubleday's Anchor
Books are sponsoring the first books
in a new series called The Natural
History Library in co-operation with
the American Museum of Natural
History.
In the same month Houghton
Mifflin will launch twelve "paper-
backs" in what they call "permanent
inexpensive format" of Sentry Edi-
tions to be devoted to the literary
and historical heritage of America.
Among the first publications are two
Pulitzer Prize winners and such au-
thors as Bernard DeVoto, Thoreau,
Henry Adams, Willa Gather, Doro-
thy Baker (Young Man With a
Horn), and Margaret Coit. The
prices range from $1.20 to $2.45.
THE LUCKIEST $7
I EVER SPENT
By a Wall Street Journal
Subscriber
Not long ago I picked up my first copy
of The Wall Street Journal. I expected
duU reading. Imagine my surprise when
1 found some of the best articles I'd ever
read!
I sent for a Trial Subscription. For the
first time in my life I began to under-
stand why some men get ahead while
others stay behind. I read about new in-
ventions, new industries and new ways
of increasing my income. Also I got ideas
on what to do to reduce living expenses
and taxes. My Trial Subscription to The
Journal cost me $7. It was the luckiest
$7 I ever spent. It has put me hundreds
of dollars ahead already.
This story is typical. The Journal is
a wonderful aid to men making $7 500
to $25,000 a year. To assure speedy
delivery to you anywhere in the US
The Journal is printed daily in seven
cities from coast to coast.
The Wall Street Journal has the largest
staff of writers on business and finance.
It costs $24 a year, but in order to ac-
quamt you with The Journal, we make
this offer: You can get a Trial Subscrip-
tion for 3 months for $7. Just send this
ad with check for $7. Or tell us to bill you.
Address: The Wall Street Journal, 44
Broad St., New York 4, N. Y. hm 8
WHICH SCHOOL, COLLEGE
or CAMP
is best for
YOUR son or daughter?
I can help you decide. Over
thirty years in school work and
guidance counseling. $5.00 for
your first inquiry; no charges
thereafter.
MRS. LEWIS D. BEMENT
Deerfield, Massachusetts
OUT-OF-PRINT
ind HARD- DOrM/^C
fIL:!^ ' i'-^^" 'a"9"a9es. Also Genealogies and
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us your list of wants. No obligation. We reoort
quickly at lowest prices. J-non. we report
(tfe also supply all current hooks at retail store
prices— Postpaid, as well as all books reviewed ad-
vertised or listed in this issue of Harper's Magazine.)
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MUSIC in the round
BY DISCUS
COMPOSERS CONDUCTING
Stravinsky and Poulenc stand up to
play their music as they see fit — and,
ignoring the critics, as conductors they
make musical history.
The Russians would probably call
it cult of the personality. In his
newest album, Igor Stravinsky con-
ducts the Columbia Symphony Or-
chestra in two of his most popular
pieces— Petrouchka and Le Sacre du
Printemps. He also narrates, on one
complete side of a disc, something
about Sacre— its inception, its orches-
tration, anecdotes about Diaghileff
and others. He also writes an essay
or two in the accompanying booklet.
He even draws a sketch of the St.
Petersburg he knew as a child and as
a young man.
All this, to be sure, is most inter-
esting, and the album is of un-
doubted historic importance (Colum-
bia DSL 300, mono, 5 sides; D3S 614,
stereo, 5 sides). Stravinsky is one of
the major musical forces of the cen-
tury, with a secure place in the his-
tory books of the future. Thus his
remarks are oral history. To hear
him chatting, in his Russian-French-
flavored voice, about the scandale of
the Sacre premiere, to listen to his
frequently amusing and sometimes
malicious remarks about this or that,
is to have an inevitable train of
hackneyed thoughts ensue. Some-
thing like: why wasn't recording in-
vented in the days of Bach and
Mozart; and other such useful reflec-
tions.
Stravinsky may or may not be a
good conductor. Opinions vary on
the point. Some professionals call
him inept and awkward— a composer-
conductor who has never learned to
balance one choir against another.
But another segment of critical op-
inion has it that Stravinsky is the
greatest of all conductors of his own
music— that he knows how it should
sound and manages somehow to get
his ideas across.
I myself incline toward the latter
view. It may be that his detractors
are reading bad things into his con-
ducting because he looks so helpless
and awkward on the podium. The
fact remains that he brings to his
own music an approach that nobody
else has been able to duplicate.
Stravinsky scored Petrouchka and
Sacre violently, with surges of bar-
baric color that out-Rimskied Rim-
sky seven ways from Sunday. What
AJ^D ALSO . . .
Chopin: Piano Concerto in E minor.
Maurizio Pollini and Philharmonia Or-
chestra conducted l)y Paul Klctzki
(Capitol G 7241, mono; SG 7241, stereo).
Pollini is the winner of the 1960
Chopin Competition in Warsaw. He
plays the Chopin E minor with an un-
usually finished style, technique to spare,
and a good deal f)f strength. Tonally he
is a little hleak, Ini h" is always a fine
musician and a hiilliaiil pianist.
Liszt: Piano Musif. Ivan Davis, pianf)
(Colurnhia MI. .')022, mr)no; MS 0222.
stereo).
In addition if> the Mephislo Waltz,
Funerailles, and Hungarian Rhapsody
No. 6, Davis plays a group of shorter
works. He handles the music with flair,
sweep, and a fine understanding of its
extroverted style. The young American
is a convincing Liszt pianist.
Faure: La Bonne Chanson; Poeme d'un
jour; Eight .songs. Gerard Souzay. bari-
tone, accompanied l)y Danton Baldwin
(Ir-pic LC 3704. mono; BC 1122, stereo).
Some of the most hiautiful songs in
the literature are on this disc. .Souzay
handles this excjuisiie nnisic with taste
and knowledge, A fine artist, and a fine
disc.
IB3
naturally happens is that virtuoso;
conductors have a field day with \ht\
scoring. (It is an open secret around
New York that Stravinsky was very
unhappy with Leonard Bernstein's
approach to the score; and one of
the reasons he wanted to make this
recording was that he was very anx-
ious to leave a permanent record of
how he thought the music really
should sound.)
Stravinsky does not make nearly
as much of the coloristic elements in
these two scores as nearly all other
conductors do. For many years-
since early in his career, indeed— he
has been declaiming against over-
interpretation. Time and time again,^
he has said that his music needs nc
"interpretation." Just follow the
notes. And that is what he doe$
here. His concepts are complete
and even startlingly, antiromantS
'It is not that color is missing, foi
plenty is present. But color is not
the important thing. Much more im
portant are the clear, sec sound h<
gets; the jauntiness of the phrasing
the almost classical primness. T<
ears attuned to the orthodox way o
conducting Sacre and Petrouchka
Stravinsky's own performance migh
sound uninteresting. But that is th
way he wants it. And, as the con-
poser, presumably his ideas are d<
finitive. The chances are that fe^
conductors will fall in line. Th
chances also are that future condui
tors, studying these recordings, wi
use them as a guide. In short, Str
vinsky is in the fortunate position (
being able to make his own trad|
tion. I
The same, of course, goes for ai
composer active today. Francis Pot
enc is one. Ever since the 1930s 1
has been active in recordings, gene
ally as a pianist in his own mtisi
Unlike Stravinsky, he has done litt
conducting. But naturally he h
worked closely with the conducto
and musicians of his recordings. Tl
new recording of his most rece
work, the Gloria for soprano, cho
and orchestra, was made under 1
supervision. Rosanna Carteri is tl
soprano, and Georges Prctre lea
the French Radio and Tclevisii
Orchestra and Chorus. The disc a)
contains the Concerto for Orga
Strings, and Tinij);iiii, with Mauri
Diuuflc:' at the oigan (Angel 359!
mono; S 35953, stereo).
lit
Kill
10
ion
110(
mi
MUSIC IN THE ROUND
Poulenc's Gloria had its world
premiere in Boston earlier this year.
It is a lovely work in the distinctive
Ponlenc idiom, which means that it
is conservative, melodic, yet in some
indescribable way up-to-date. Poul-
tnc manages to work in traditional
larmony and somehow sound mod-
-rn. The Gloria consists of six sec-
ions, two of which are soprano solos
and the soprano also makes a brief
.'ntry in ihe fnial chorus). Many ele-
nents appear throughout the work:
renaissance type of writing at the
pening; some Stravinsky (notably
n the Laudamiis te), some almost
azzy musical-hall recollections that
ate to the Poulenc of the 'twenties,
nd some pure Poulenc, especially
n the two solos. Those solos are as
ovely and songful as any of his
ongs, which is saying a great deal,
or Poidenc probably is the greatest
ong writer since Faure.
As always, ilie score is tlie work of
thorough professional. Construc-
ion, choral writing, solo work, or-
hestration— all are the work of a
naster. The Gloria is a hard work
o resist, and one suspects that it will
)e a permanent addition to the
epertory. It receives what must be
n authoritative performance, with
le composer in charge of the ses-
ions. Carter! sings her arias beauti-
ully, though without the haunting
•urity that Adele Addison presented
/hen she sang the work in New York
:ist season.
The Concerto for Organ, Strings,
nd Timpani is one of Poulenc's
eo-classic works, with Bach-like
ourishes and a suggestion of eight-
enth-century techniques. But as in
11 neo-classic music, this is the eight-
enth century seen through very
lodern eyes. Poulenc goes in for an
stinato type of writing, and the
lain theme of the work (it recurs
iroughout the score) is a repetitive
Jbject that is hypnotic and hard to
et out of the memory once the work
over. This is one of Poulenc's best
ieces of music, polished and urbane,
jphisticated and fluent. The per-
)rmance on this disc is hampered
y the organ that Durufle uses. It is
heavy-sounding, over-resonant in-
rument, and it tends to swamp the
rings in a wallow of thick tone,
urely Poulenc must have had a
ghter, baroque-like instrument in
lind.
JAZZ
notes
Eric Larrabee
FOR LAFFS
Surely it is a sign of adulthood in an
art form when it begins to develop
the ability to laugh at itself. The very
existence of parody presupposes a num-
ber of styles so different as to be rec-
ognizable by the lay public, and of
competence so widespread that the
young and disrespectful may be found
who have the capacity— as well as the
inclination— to taunt the Masters.
In jazz such talents have long existed,
but not often for public consumption.
Tliey have been among the few remain-
ing private pleasures of the musicians,
for delectation among themselves, so
that— for example— it may still be a mat-
ter of dispute whetlicr in the Charlie
Parker recording session of November
26, 1045, the trumpet is Miles Davis, or
Dizzy Gillespie imitating Miles. These
delights are now publicly availai)le.
Argo has recently brought out a record
called "Morris Grants Presents J.U.N.K."
— Jazz University's New Kicks— in which
a handful of anonymous musicians and
a supply of canned applause arc used to
simulate an entire jazz festival. The
artists being parodied appear mostly
under the name of Morris, and they in-
clude Morris Brewbeck, Morris Garner,
Ornctte Morris, and Miles Morris as
well as Merry Julligan and Theloneliest
Plunk. The humor of the liner notes is
on about the same level, but that of the
record inside is far more sophisticated.
Perhaps I am unduly sympathetic, but
to me this sort of legitimate fun in jazz
comes as a great relief. The normal
emotional atmosphere of the jazz world
is one of ferocity slightly tempered by
paranoia, with the result that the im-
pulse to satirize seems by comparison to
be essentially kindly. I cannot help feel-
ing that the musicians who made the
.Argo record were having a good time
doing it, and that only out of some
affection and respect for one of the
Greats can he be successfully mimicked.
Not to prolong their anonymity, the
men involved are as follows: trumpet.
Doc Sevirinsen; drums, Don Lainond;
bass. Trigger .Altert: piano, Bernie
Leighton: saxes and some piano solos,
Jordan Ramin, who also had the original
idea and saw it through to production.
Mr. Ramin reports that the reaction he
has so far had from the trade has not
been generous, so that the answer to the
question, "Is jazz ready for satire?" is
still— not yet.
Morris Grants Presents J.U.N.K. Argo
LP 4006.
NEXT MONTH IN
HARPER'S
JULES FEIFFER AND
THE ALMOST-IN GROUP
Profile of the young cartoonist
who has made nonconformity a
popular product for the mass mar=
ket.
By Julius Novick
KENNEDY'S ECONOMISTS
What they want, where they dis-
agree, where the power lies, and
what they are hkely to do.
By Hohart Rowen
THE INVISIBLE ABORIGINE
The co-author of "The Ugly
American" reports on the strange
— and horrifying — nature of primi-
tive inan in the Australian bush.
By Eugene Burdick
VIOLENCE IN
THE CITY STREETS
How our "housing experts" un-
wittingly encourage crime.
By Jane Jacobs
MR. FUTURE
A new story by Leo Rosten.
The ANGEL RECORD CLUB invites you to enjoy these high fidelity
ApvENTOBES EST SOlMD !
K
Choose any
ALBUMS S
plus a small
charge for postage
packing and mailing
As a member of
-. the Angel Record Club, you will
be offered selections from Angel Records
magnificent international repertoire
including Columbia Gramophone (of England),
Pathe Marconi (of France), EM. I. s
historic HMV label, and the
world famous Capitol catalog.
The Blood-Tingling
Sound of
^m4 Bag Pipers...
When you become a Trial Member of the Angel
Record Club and agree to buy as few as six
future selections during the next 12 months
..^-e.« f-r.1 r>f*f=UL. 1*1 SOUND, THE SURFACES PERFE
EXTREMELY HIGH STANDARD ... COLORFUL. l^j^M"«^.
itfl
CT."— NEW YORK TIMES
anc '.ne fabulous 66-man
rrii:.;_ V ;and of tfie Scots
Gu^rc: -fiey play 21 pulsating
Strathsrcy5...f^eels...f/larches
. . .ar.u Patrols, from Hielan'
Whiskey and The Wee Macgregor
to Garb of Old Gaul and Cock
0' the N ;nh. One of Angels
all-tim? bestsellers; hear
it once and you'll
know '/hy. (702.
THE SCOTS GUARDS
The Sound of Ti^i^erary...
Sung in Russian!
200 thundering male voices sing
Tipperary (in Russian and English),
Oh, No! John, plus traditional Russian
songs -and the most exciting Volga
Boat Song perforrriance youVe ever
hpardi (S700. THE SOVIET ARMY
Chorus 4 BAND, m-sb; stereo
$5.98)
The Passionate Sound
of Edith Piaf
. . . singing (as Time
Magazine said) "of
everything that ever
went wrong with love
in Paris or acjywhere
else." Here are 12
songs she has made fa-
mous. (759. PIAF. $3.98)
,N MASTERFOCUSE OF REPRODUCTION AHOBi. HOLDS THE LEAD.- -NEWSWEEK
The Stirring
Sound of
Classic
Guitars
...in crystal clear high
fidelity! Here are works
of de Falla. Ravel. Cho-
pin and others played
in the grand tradition
of the classic Guitar by
one of the greatest
masters of this subtle
and expressive instru-
ment. (S-761. THE
SPANISH GUITARS OF
LAURINOO ALMEIDA.
$4 98; STEREO $5.98)
The Sound of a Zither
in a Bavarian Beer Hall
An authentic evening in f^unich with
Alfons Bauer, his Zither and Orchestra,
The Comcdien Quartett, a Bavarian
brass band and other native stars^ In
the highest of Hi-fi. too! (757. GERMAN
BEER-DRINKING MUSIC. $3.98)
AS SMOOTH AS SILK.--THE NEW YORKER
Tlie Sound of
"Angels in Pigtails"
-Dylan Thomas' tribute to 30 golden-
braided German girls and 7 boys who
sing Snow White (in English); folk
songs; and lyric pieces by Schubert
Schumann. Mendelssohn. Tchaikov-
sky (765.THEOBERNKIRCHEN CHIL-
DREN'S CHOIR. $4.98)
The Sound
of Callas
in Puccini
Operas
What greater roles
for the most exciting
singing actress of our
time than the hero-
ines of Puccini's
Manon Lescaut-
Madame Butterfly -
La Boheme — Turan-
dot! Here is Callas
at her artistic climax
— as singer, actress
and woman. With the
Philharmonia Orches
tra (747. CALLAS
PORTRAYS PUCCINI
HEROINES. $4.98)
'FAULTLESS SOUND."— HIGH FIDELITY
r USE THIS COUPON TO ORDER YOUR 4 ANGEL ALBUMS
I Mail To: THE ANGEL RECORD CLUB- Dept. 2056- Scranton 5, Penna.
I
I
SEND ME-AT ONCE-THESE FOUR ALBUMS
All you will bill me is 99c plus a small charge
for postage, packing and mailing.
Please accept my application for trial
membership in the Angel Record Club. As a
member I agree to buy six additional records
during the next 12 months, from over 100
superb albums to be offered. For these albums
—by the world's great artists like those whose
albums are shown here with their Club price
-1 will pay $3.98, $4.98 or S5.98,«depending on
the record purchased, plus a small charge for
postage, packing and mailing 7 days after I
receive each album.
You will send me-FREE— each month the
illustrated Angel Record Club Review (The
Stylus) which pictures and describes the
monthly selections and alternate selections.
3
Whenever I want the monthly selection I need
do nothing; it will be sent to me automatically.
But if I wish any of the o""" ^f" P"'"?'
wish no record at all that month- 1 will i^ou y
the Club on the form always Prov^ded^ 1 wUl
purchase at least one record every two months.
BONUS ALBUMS will be E'^en to me a^
the rate of one 12-inch album for every two
that I buy, after my agreed ^P°"V,),^J'Tr.
selections. / will select my own BON V^ ^^
BUMS from an up-to-date list of current best
sellers.
1 may cancel my membership anytime aft^r
buying six additional records. (Only one mem
bership per family.)
A thrilling collector's item! 14 strange melodic
pieces recorded on an overland journey from Turkey
to India— across Syria. Jordan, Iraq, Iran. Afghan-
istan and Pakistan. Your album package includes
fascinating illustrated notes explaining language,
locale, instruments and meaning of the various
'"**^^^ (756, MUSIC ON THE DESERT ROAD. $4.98)
I
I
I 18 More Albums to Choose From !
I
I
No-RiSK Guarantee: If not delighted, I will return these FOUR ALBUMS
within 7 days and my membership will be cancelled without further oDiigaiion-
□ Cherle here If you own a
8TEP.E0 rfiord player end %tT-.':
to tiuy your nil future lele'-llorr*
In tiereo «hl'h the Cluli lellt for
II. or) more than monaural. Then
the I re<or'J* you hare ihojen
maryert ' S ' will be »ent to you
111 STEREO wKh a lilll for tl 'I"
more (Trjial »1 Vu BONUS
ALBUMS anil fuliir^ -.►l.'llon-
will al*ri lie In »t«-r(-o. NOTE:
Kterro rerordu ran he played only
on .t^.ri'O e'lulpment.
PIIINT NAMB
L—
- I M I ■-. ' >
,\i.ai-l It"
ir v.,ii ■■■<
.., ...iKit
MOM' V.
.1 riiii,
1 It, j<,i(
'A« will
• f Cniiu'ln,
I thniuuti
lilll yiHi
I IH4 C'uxu
III ANflKI (III.
Mill hi* niililv
I M.I It
I'lilieM"
.1 Ml, Ol'
„Ollllill7.f
III mnrlfli
S705. lOlUIPOPS. Sir Thomas
Beecharti conducts 8 delight-
ful "musical sweet-meats"
by Berlioz. Debussy, Mozart,
others $4,9B; Stereo $5,98.
728. WAGNER OPERA SELEC-
TIONS. The Berlin Philhar.
monir plays Tannhauser, The
Flying Dutchman, Gotterdam-
merung. $4.98.
730. BRAHMS'. SYMPHONY
NO. 4. His final symphony,
iii.iyed by the Philharmonia
Ml' hestra, conducted by
Hi iberl Von Karaian $4,98.
S731. Sibelius: SYMPHONY
NO, 2, Powerfully played by
thi- Philharmonia Orchestra,
Paul Kietzki conducting.
$4.98; Stereo $5.98.
S733 ProkOfieY: SYMPHONY
NO 5. A stunning rendition
'ri A heroic work bv Thomas
',. h'\i\i^i\ with Pt^ilnar monic
'jnh $4 98, Stereo $5.98.
'.114 TchJIkOKiky: SYM.
i-HONV NO 4 A superb per-
I'irmanre by Constantin Sil-
ii*'.lri and Ihe Philharmonia
or h $4.98i Sleroo $5.98.
737. Khatchaturian: VIOLIN
CONCERTO. Oavid Oistrakh
plays, the composer con-
ducts, in a dazzling, unfor-
gettable performance. $4.98.
S738. Beethoven: PIANO
CONCERTO NO. 4. Russia's
famed Emil Gilels is soloist
with the f'hilharmonia Orch.
$4.98; Stereo $5.98.
5740. Tchaikovsky: VIOLIN
CONCERTO: Mendelssohn:
VIOLIN CONCERTO. Christian
Ferraswith the Philharmonia
Orch $4.98; Stereo $5.98.
5741. Prokofiev: CINDER-
ELLA. The ballet's enchant-
ing music Robert Irving
conducts the Royal Philhar-
monic $4.98; Stereo $5.98.
743. Stravinsky: PETROUCH-
KA. The complete score of
the famous ballet. Efrem
Kurtz conducts the Philhar-
monia Orchestra. $4.98.
745. Chopin: 8 MAZURKAS:
3 POLONAISES. Witold Mal.
ruzynsKi at the piano in
fiery renditions of 11 nota-
ble works. $4.98.
752. EILEEN FARRELL IN
SONGS AND BALLADS. 15
pieces, best-loved and little-
known, with George Trovillo
on piano. $4.98.
5753. VIENNESE DANCES «2.
The Philharmonia under
Vienna-born Henry Knps
plays 6 scintillating waltzes.
$4.98; Storeo $5.98.
5754. THREE RHAPSODIES.
The Vienna Philharmonic un-
der Silvestri plays rhapso-
dies by Liszt, Ravel, Enesco,
$4.98; Stereo $5.98.
758. SWISS MOUNTAIN MU-
SIC. Hear the unique Alphorn.
yodeling, other vocals and
instrumentals in 21 cheerful
folk tunes. $3.98.
7S0. TWO IN A GONDOLA.
Dino Oliveri conducts
Venetian music aglitter with
romantic violins and man-
dolins $3.9B.
S7S2. RUSSKAYA! The Holly
viood Bowl Symphony in
rousinK Russi.in music by
Glmk.l, Rimsky KorsJko^
others $4.98; Stereo $5.98.
HA 2
^o matter what the weather, speed or altitude, an IBM navigational computer system now being developed
Mill let the pilot see his position on a moving map. His air speed is 1,500 mph, his altimeter 50,000 feet. Below
him lies the earth totally obscured by cloud cover, and above, the darkness of outer space. Yet the pilot can see where
he is and where he's going. How? ■ A small glass hemisphere carries a detailed map of half the earth and is tied
into the plane's computer, A beam of light illuminates a small section of this hemisphere and projects it onto a
screen in front of the pilot. In flight, the computer rotates the hemisphere, correlating it exactly with the plane's
supersonic progress and the rotating earth. ■ To develop this system, IBM engineers came up with a new technique
for depositing the map image on glass. In discovering it, they established principles that may be followed in space
navigation as well — using a star map instead of an earth map. By exploring new methods of collection, processing and
communication of data, IBM is uncovering many new solutions to problems of business and science.
IBM
lew electronic map will show the pilot where in the world he is
m:A
T
MEET BOTH SIDES
OF THE
I. VS/, HARPER
FAMILY...
Bottled in Bond
and mellow 86 Proof
both original and
genuine distillery-bottled
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fj"«*
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* "ARPER DISnUJNG CW«^
m) ANl> BOITI'^' ''
'R DISTILLING col
VlUf • kinmk
1 i:i»
Today's I.W. Harper bottles stand between "Companion" Long-Necked decanter, 1910, and "Dandy" Pinch Bottle, 1900.
I. W. Harper Bottled in Bond has all the rich
authority of a fine 100 Proof Bourbon. The mellow
86 Proof side of the family is agreeably light
and engaging. Both are the same original and genuine
Prized Kentucky Bourbon ... distilled
and bottled at the I. W. Harper distillery.
I
I.W. HARPER
THE GOLD MEDAL BOURBON
roimoi I' Ml mbc(;
BOTH KENTUCKY STRAIGHT BOURBON WHISKEY • I. W. HARPER DISTILLING CO., LOUISVILLE, KENTUCKY]
I
k* It
'>-iSt,^a&
sirriMBiii 1961
Sixty cints
ENNEDY'S
:CONOMISTS
/hat they want...
/here they disagree...
/here the power lies...
ly HOBART ROWEN
IVHY WE DONT
IVIPE OUT POLIO
ly LEONARD ENGEL
lULES FEIFFER
l\ND THE
HLMOST-IN-GROUP
by JULIUS NOVICK
Also: BORIS PASTERNAK,
ROBERT LOWELL,
LEO ROSTEN,
EUGENE BURDICK, and
YLVIA WRIGHT
T
n
ifmgaz'ine
^i
I
JAHE JACOBS
^/
^SjN
Great
Moments
in
Medicine
JOHX HU \'l ER—louudri of Scicntijic Surgery— one of a series
of original oil paintings commissioned by Parke-Daiis.
When John Hunter was born, in 1728, surgery was
considered menial work, ^'et, in combining great
natural talent, insatial^le curiosity, and keen obser-
vation, the Sr ottish-ijorn Hunter became the greatest
British comjjarative anatomist ol his time and ^\as
honored posthumously as "The Founder ol Scientific
Surgery." His famous anatomical collection, includ-
ing skeletons ol die iiow-extin( t Great Auk and ol die
Irish Giant, numbered 1^5,082 spet imcns at his deadi.
The (hsiic lo biiiig older f>iit ol diaos, ;nid to extend
the realm ol human endea\f», is moli\aiion lor uio"^-
1 o
ress in all pliases ol medic ine, surgei y. and su])j)ortive
fields ol treatment. Kadi new day\ progress brings
patients better and better chances ol lull ieco\er\.
\\here\er ilicx li\e in the woi Id and \\hale\er their
illness cjr disease may be.
Parke-Davis, woi king with and lor physic ians around
the Avorld in the struggle loi better health, is con-
stantly endea\c>iing to im])ic)\t' medicines. When
presciibc-d bv \f)ur pinsician and dis|)ensed by ycnn
phannac isi, these medic ines olien help lo make youi'
li(;ddi belter and vcnu lile Icjiigci and liclui.
COPyRIGHT H60-IMI —PARKE. DAVIS a COMPANY. DETROIT 3.;. MICHIGAN
PARKE-DAVIS
I'ifnircrs in hellrr iiiedif inrs
PW^
RECORD ATTENDANCE. Nearly 19,000 share owners attended the 1961 annual meeting of A. T. & T, This was the largest
attendance ever recorded by any business. There was full and free discussion of many matters— evidence of democracy at work.
Now. .. 2,000,000 Bell Telephone Share Owners
A NEV\^ MILESTONE IN DEMOCRACY
AND AMERICAN BUSINESS
The ownership of the country's
largest business by over two million
people is a dramatic testimonial to
the American economic system. Here,
for all the world to see, is democracy
at work.
The result is a communications
service of increasing value to both
the public and business and a vital
element in national defense.
The owners of American Telephone
and Telegraph Company stock are
people in all walks of life, in every
section of the country.
A great many are small share own-
ers. About 290,000 own fewer than
ten shares. 42% are women. An ad-
ditional 3 1 % are joint accounts, gen-
erally in the names of husband and
wife. More than 300,000 are tele-
phone employees.
In addition to the direct owners,
many millions of other people have an
important, beneficial interest through
the holdings of their insurance com-
panies, pension funds, investment
companies, unions, savings banks, etc.
Without the money that A. T. & T.
share owners have put in the business,
you could not possibly have the tele-
phone service you enjoy today. Nor
would there be work and wages for
over 730,000 employees.
This year alone share owners have
furnished $961,000,000 in new capi-
tal by subscribing to A. T. & T. stock.
Given the opportunity to plan
boldly for the future— and with earn-
ings on a level that makes such prog-
ress possible— you can be sure that we
will make further contributions to the
growth and security of the nation.
BELL TELEPHONE SYSTEM
HARPER & BROTHERS
Chairman of the Executive
Committee: cass canfield
Chairman of the Board:
FRANK S. MACGREGOR
President:
RAYMOND C. HARWOOD
Executive Vice President:
EVAN W. THOMAS
Vice Presidents:
EUGENE EXMAN, ORDWAY TEAD,
DANIEL F. BRADLEY, JOHN FISCHER,
URSULA NORDSTROM
Treasurer: LOUis F. haynie
HariDef
MAGA
ZINE
PUBLISHED BY
HARPER & BROTHERS
VOL. 223, NO. 1336
SEPTEMBER 1961
MAGAZINE STAFF
Editor in Chief: JOHN fischer
Managing Editor: russell lynes
Publisher: JOHN jay hughes
Editors:
KATHERINE GAUSS JACKSON
CATHARINE MEYER
ROBERT B. SILVERS
LUCY DONALDSON
MARION K. SANDERS
Contributing Editor:
WILLIAM S. WHITE
Editorial Secretary: rose daly
Editorial Assistant:
VIRGINIA HUGHES
ADVERTISING DATA
HARPER-ATLANTIC SALES, INC.
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Telephone YUkon 6-3344
Production Manager: KIM SMITH
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Telephone MUrray Hill 3-1900
HARPERS MAGAZINE:
© 1961 by Harper & Brothers.
All rights, including translation into
other languages, reserved by the
Publisher in the United States, Great
Britain, Mexico, and all countries
participating in the Universal
Copyright Convention, the International
Copyriglu Cc;nvention, and the
Pan-American Copyright Convention.
Published monthly by Harper & Brothers.
49 East 33rd St., New York 16, N. Y.
Composed and printed in the U.S.A.
by union labor by the Williams Press,
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Second class postage paid
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SUBSCRIPTION RATES: 6()( per copy;
$6.00 one year; $11.00 two years;
$15.00 three years. Foreign postage —
except Canada and Pan America —
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CHANGE OF ADDRESS: Six weeks'
advance notiLC, and old address as
well as new, are necessary.
Address all tiirrcspondencc relating
to subscriptions Id: Subscription Dcpl.,
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a
ARTICLES
25 Kennedy's Economists, Hobart Rowen
33 On Both Your R-ouses, Sylvia Wright
37 Violence in the City Streets, Jane Jacobs
58 Jules Feiffer and the Almost-In-Group, Julius X(n>ick
63 The Peace Corps' Secret Mission, Benjamin DcMott
69 The Invisible Aborigine, Eugene Burdick
77 Why We Don't Wipe Out Polio, Leonard En gel
81 Canada's Luxury Ghost Town, Fred Bodsxv-orth
FICTION
48 Mr. Future, Leo Rosten
VERSE
44 Seven Poems by Boris Pasternak, Robert Loioell
67 The Husking, Dilys Laing
80 The Thread, Dcnise Lever tov
DEPARTMENTS
4 Letters
10 The Editor's Easy Chair— money bait. ]<)Jtn Fische^
21 After Hours— monk talk, Robert Kotlowitz
92 Public & Personal— twelve at the table,
William S. White
96 The New Books, Irving Kristol
101 Books in Brief, Kathrrine (iauss Jackson
104 Music in the Round, Discus
105 Jazz Notes, Eric Larrabee
ARiisrs: CJovcr, );iiu'i I lalvcrson; 21, N. M. Hodctkcr: 33
Uiirmah Burris; -ll. jo.st-ph Papin; 18. Nonna-Jcan Roplin.
This issue is published in luilional and spednl rdiliDii.s.
J
25 OUTSTANDING BOOKS OF THE LAST 12 MONTHS
Just for self-appraisal: CHECK THOSE YOU FUllY INTENDED
TO READ BUT FAILED TO . . . THROUGH OVERSIGHT OR OVERBUSYNESS
AGONY
WD nit
ECSTASY
IRVING
S'IX)NE'
D
wbSSm
D
455. THE AGONY 466. RUSSIA AND
AND THE EC-
STASY by IRVING
STONn. (Retail
price $5.95)
THE WEST UN-
DER LENIN AND
STALIN /-ij GEORGE
F. KENNAN. (Re-
tail price $5.75)
AWARD BOOKS ESPECIALLY RECOMMENDED
National Book Award
For Non-Fiction
431. THE RISE
AND FALL OF
THE THIRD REICH
by WM. L. SHIRER
(Ret.iil price $10)
433. TIMES THREE
by PHYLLIS MC-
GINLEY. (Retail
price $5 )
Puliti«r Priie
For Fiction
435. TO KILL A
MOCKINGBIRD
by HARPER LEE
(Reta il price
$3.95)
THE EDGE
OF
SADNESS
FVIE
[ IS the:
i IVoliles
Courjonci
D
463. THE EDGE
OF SADNESS by
EDWIN O'CONNOR
(Retail price $5)
186. HAWAII by
JAMES A. MICH-
ENER. (Retail
price $6.95 )
452. CHINA
COURT by rumer
GODDEN. (Retail
price $4.50)
n
i:rnest
450. FATE IS THE
HUNTER by ER-
NEST K. GANN
(Retail price $6)
\Vbt)KiM
S(x-itry'
CMf/o""^'"""'
465. PROFILES IN
COURAGE by
JOHN F. KEN-
NEDY. (Retail
price $3.95)
IS9D ffer^-D
472. THE MOST
OF P. G. WODE-
HOUSE by P. G.
WODEHOUSE. (Re-
tail price $6.50)
462. THE SECRET
OF THE KINGDOM
by MIKA WALTARI
(Retail price
$4.95)
THE
wuriE
NILE ;§
461. CITIZEN OF
NEW SALEM by
PAUL HORGAN. Il-
lustrated. (Retail
price $3.75)
449. WHO KILLED
SOCIETY? by
CLEVELAND AM-
ORY. Illustrated
(Retail price
$6.50)
436. DECISION
AT DELPHI by
HELEN MACINNES
(Retail price
$4.95)
*g^^^' I I
ID
416. BORN FREE 442. THE WHITE 434. THE DEVIL'S 448. ABRAHAM
by JOY ADAMSON
Illustrated. (Re-
tail price $4.95)
NILE by ALAN
MOOREHEAD. Il-
lustrated. (Retail
price $5.95)
ADVOCATE by
MORRIS L. WEST
(Retail price
$3.95)
LINCOLN: The
Prairie Years AND
The War Years
by CARL SANDBURG
1 -vol . edition
(Retailprice$7.50)
WHAT DOES
YOUR
SELF-CHECK
SHOW ABOUT
YOUR RECENT
BOOK-
READING
HABITS?
GOOD SENSE FOR EVERY READING FAMILY
Tf YOUR SELF-CHECK rcvcals that you have
been missing the books you promise
yourself to read because of irritating over-
busyness, there is a simple way to break
this bad habit: membership in the Book-of-
the-Month Club-. During the coming year, at
; least 200 books will be made available to
: members. The members' prices for these
Club choices are, on the average, 20% below
the publishers' regular retail prices. (For ex-
ample, the members' price for J/je Hise and
Tall of the Third Tleich, which retails for $10,
is only $5.95— a saving of over 40%.)
5|c Your only obligation in the trial mem-
bership suggested here is to buy as few as
three of these 200 books, in addition to the
three you choose from this page. The latter
will be sent to you immediately, and you will
be billed one dollar for each of them (plus a
small charge for postage and handling).
^ If you continue after the trial mem-
bership, with every second Club choice you
buy you will receive a valuable Book-Divi-
dend averaging more than $7 in retail value.
Since the inauguration of this profit-sharing
plan, $255,000,000 worth of books (retail
value) has been earned and received by
Club members as Book-Dividends. Isn't it
good sense, for the year ahead, at least to
make this trial, and get back into the habit
of book reading?
457. RING OF
BRIGHT WATER
by GAVIN MAX-
WELL. Illustrated
(Retail price $5)
451. A BURNT.
OUT CASE by
GRAHAM GREENE
(Retail price
$3.95)
454. THE LAST
OF THE JUST by
ANDRE SCHWARZ-
BART. (Retail
price $4.95)
458. JAPANESE
INN by OLIVER
STATLER. Illus-
trated. (Retail
price $6.50)
104. ADVISE
AND CONSENT
by ALLEN DRURY
(Retail price
$5.75)
467. THE MAK<
INGOFTHEPRES.
IDENT — 1960 by
THEODORE H.
WHITE. (Retail
price $6.95 )
YOU MAY CHOOSE
ANY THREE
FOR $1 EACH
IN A SHORT TRIAL MEMBERSHIP IN THE
Book-of-the-Month Club
« . . if you agree fo buy as few as three
additional books from the Club during
the coming year
BOOK-OF.THE-MONTH CLUB, Inc. A39
345 Hudson Street, New York 14, N. Y.
Please enroll me as a member of the Book-of-the-
Month Club* and send the three books whose num-
bers I have indicated in boxes below, blUingr mc
$3.00 (plus postage and handling). I agree to pur-
chase at least three additional monthly Selections or
alternates — during the first year I am a member. I
have the right to cancel my membership any time
after buying three Club choices (In addition to those
included in this Introductory offer) . The price will
never be more than the publisher's price, and fre-
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added to cover postage and maliing expenses.) PLEASE
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fulfilling the membership obligation to buy three
Club choices.
INDICATE BY NUMBER IN BOXES BELOW
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CD CD CD
MR
MRS
MISS
ss )
(Please print plainly)
City Zone State
Selections and alternates for Canadian members are usu-
ally priced slightly (lighcr, are shipped from Toronto duty
free, and may be paid for in either U.S. or Canadian
currency.
^Trademark Reg, U, S, Pat, Off. and in Canada
J.
lUi
J.
ly
You'll never find di gentler %zo\.q\\ than
Bell's. Yet its taste has real authority.
Bell's "12" (Royal Vat) Mellowed
lor twelve years in the wood, it has
reached the age of greatness.
Bell's Special Reserve An excep-
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in everything but years.
86 PROOF, BLENDED SCOICII WHISKY. *HEUBLEIN, INC..
HARTFORD. CONN., 1961, SOLE DISIRIBUTORS FOR THE U.S.A.
LETTERS
Volcano Erupts
To THE Editors:
Miriam Borgenicht's explosion
["Teachers College: An Extinct Vol-
cano?" July] makes only one valid point
about the institution: not all of TC's
students measure up to the highest
standards of scholarship.
Mrs. Borgenicht contends that the
emphasis and preponderance of courses
at TC are in the area of methods. A
quick glance at the College's Catalogue
demolishes this statement. The Depart-
ment of the Teaching of Social Studies,
in which I myself am enrolled as a grad-
uate student, offers nine methods
courses and about thirty content
courses. . . .
Mrs. Borgenicht is almost audacious
when she writes "one book per semester"
as being indicative of the general stand-
ards at TC. I have recently completed
two courses in which no less than three
texts were required reading in each
course. Furthermore, there were "sug-
gested" reading lists and reading for
term papers. . . . There are students
here at Teachers College who are very
much convinced that it is still the citadel
of what is best in American teachers and
teaching.
Irving J. Sloan
New York, N. Y.
Miriam Borgenicht's article surely
reached many sympathetic ears. I earned
a teaching certificate at a southwestern
university. . . . During my eight weeks
of practice teaching ... I learned more
than in all my Education courses put to-
gether. Yet, this teaching was done
under only one teacher who had al-
ready structured the class and estab-
lished discipline in a university school
with selective admission. On my first
day of teaching in a public school, I was
faced with illiterate students and honor
students, unruly ones and civili/cd ones,
a dictatorial administration, and ;iii in-
dolent janitor!
No course could have presolved these
problems. Much depends on the initi-
ative and creativity of the individu.il
teacher. Perhaps, however, a system of
graduated apprenticeship under difler-
cnl teachers would have armed me with
more of a fortified and iniiiure prcpiired-
iiess than sb.illow disc ussioiis ol ;iMi;ileur
psy( ho.iiKilysis usually led by inexperi-
enced professors with a vested interest
in an entrenched and empty system.
Anne Rl'ssell Callen
Houston, Tex.
As the author of the oft-quoted
Teachers College doctoral dissertation,
"Your Pencil Sharpener, Its Care, Lo-
cation and Use," 1 would like to re-
quest that you correct several minor er-
rors by Miriam Borgenicht: (1) Miriam
doesn't have the title correct. (2) It
wasn't a doctoral dissertation. (3) It
wasn't done at TC. This was a com-
mercial brochure which I wrote in 19.52
for the C: Howard Hunt Pen Company
of Camden, N. J. The publication had
no connection with TC. . . .
I would appreciate your correction of
this error, as a number of my students
are clamoring to do a follow-up study
entitled "The Care, Location, and Use
of Your Pencil Sharpener— During a
Space Age Economy."
Prof. Donald J. Lel'
College of Education
Michigan State University
East Lansing, Mich.
Harp'er's is always glad to rescue an
author from anonymity.— T/ze Editors
Religious Revolt
To THE Editors:
Miriam Chapin introduces her article,
"Quebec's Revolt against the Catholic
Schools" [July], by describing her
"worldly friend" Martine, who separates
herself from God and Church by birth
control and bad confessions. Then Mrs.
Chapin appears to include this young
woman among those anti-clericals who
are "Catholics of good standing who are
trying to put the laymen in control." I
doubt that Mrs. Chapin is so naive as to
believe that any knowledgeable Catholic,
Canadian or otherwise, will swallow that
bit of double tnlk: but I want to point
out to my non-(;aiholic friends the mis-
leading nature of what she writes.
Hasn't anyone suggested working Avilh
and through the clergy instead of against
them?
DoRoiiiv S. Bkown
VVinooski. Vt
Gloomy Playicrifihtf
To the KniroRs:
Mary McClarihy is a splendid writer
and I always enjoy reading hir. I
thought her piece " 'Realism' in the
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B6I-92
LETTERS
^^kat lied beyond
the fretted arckwayl
^Tx5alk through the archway
and you may find a bazaar riot-
ous with the colors of many-
hued flowers, of golden fruit
and gleaming silks. A few steps
may bring you close to a sculp-
tured temple, centuries old yet
miraculously intact.
Eeturning in the jasmine-
scented dusk you may find that
the fairy-tale palace with its
soft lights is really your hotel,
its interior superbly modern in
every detail.
Walk through the archway
...in your imagination today...
in reality tomorrow. For all
the wonders of India lie only
17 hours away by air. As a fas-
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fusely illustrated 156-page
book on India. Write Dept. H
Govt. oi^ndiCi Tourist Office
New York: 19 E. 49th St.
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Your travel agent will guide you.
Anurican Theatre" [July] a very good
(UK' indeed, but Miss McCarthy seems
( ui lously disappointed with our realistic
drama. I quite agree that there is little
iKianitude to American realism, but I'm
not sure that is anything to be unhappy
:il)(mt. Realism isn't a very noble dra-
iii:iiic style since it defies good language
iikI disavows really dimensional
lii'iught. I think the ineffectiveness
' i )ur realistic drama might even speak
>\ ell of us. Whatever the case, it was a
rst-rate article.
Paddy Chayefsky
NcTv York, N. Y.
I found Miss McCarthy's criticism in-
teresting and provocative. It seems to
me, however, that she had to torture fact
and logic a bit in order to nail our pres-
ent theatre in the coffin she constructs.
Indeed Miss McCarthy displays a gen-
eral bias against the drama. This is
demonstrated in her attempt to belittle
the drama by showing how it "feeds on
the novel." Certainly she is aware that
the drama was alreadv long mature be-
fore the upstart novel appeared on the
literary scene. Did the theatre go hungry
all those centuries before?
Ivan B. Gluckman
Philadelphia, Pa.
The Benefactor
To THE Editors:
I wonder if government subsidies and
government-sponsored scholarships will
ever be able to replace the type of help
and inspiration provided by such men
as William E. Hinds ["The Search for
William E. Hinds," by Walter Prescott
Webb, July]. I wonder if the supply of
country boys waiting to be inspired is
becoming exhausted. If it is, our coun-
try is doomed. It is hoped that Profes-
sor Webb finds a lot of others who have
been helped by Mr. Hinds and that
Harper's will give us a report on the
results.
Harold E. Simon, M.D.
Birmingham, Ala.
Unwelcome Old Junior
To THE Editors:
The description of the majority of
America's young adults by William S.
White ["Old Junior's Progress," Public
K: Personal, July] is so accurate that the
picture oi our future is frightening.
What has happened to our education
system that wc have produced a genera-
lion of rude "know-alls" who display
(onleinpi ;m(l disrespect for the iniclH-
gentsia? As Mr. White pointed oiit, a
boy slu)ul(l be a man at twenty one but
fhis is a char.u reristic most Airicrican
males have lost. Why are European
countries successful in distilling this de-
sired quality when America is failing so
miserably? Is there an answer? Or
will this dilemma result in the few in-
dividuals slowly joining ranks with the
Parent-State- Federal-supported Juniors?
D. Carson
New Orleans, La.
I finished reading William S. White's
article on the new American male and
hoo boy— he described our son ex-
actly! . . .
I can hardly wait for Daddy to come
home from the office. After he reads
Mr. White's article we are going to sit
down and say to our big, strong, hairy-
chested, lazy, handsome, mannerly ap-
prentice bum of a son, "Sonny," (we
still call him that— he's just a babe of
twenty) "now that you are going into the
Air Force we have a message for you.
Yoli are exiting from the lollipop ex-
press; you are being evicted from the
gravy train. If you marry that wonder-
fully sweet woman you've been leaning
on for two years you'd better make sure
you can get a job at the filling station—
she is a disciplined person and can -al-
ways teach school— because Daddy is go-
ing to have a vacation, selfish as it
sounds, and Mommy is going along."
I hope to God he's too young to have
a stroke.
Name Withheld
Latin Plan
To the Editors:
In the light of this country's recent
faux pas in Cuba, Peter F. Drucker's "A
Plan for Revolution in Latin America"
[July] seemed sensible and rational. I
hope that President Kennedy will read
it carefully before green-lighting any
more idiotic Putsches. . . .
Lloyd Wilkie
Canoga Park, Calif.
Peter F. Drucker's piece on Latin
America is an excellent treatment of the
problem, in that it helps to clarify what
we can and cannot reasonably do with
regard to the situation in that region.
Mike Mansfield
U. S. Senate, Montana
Washington, D. C.
The World Needs Books
To THE Editors:
You were kind enough to mention
this Training Clollege as one of the in-
stitutions needing Iil)r.iry l)ooks [in "The
New Africa," by Adlai Steven.son, May
HKiO]. Not only have many people in
the States and in Canada sent us books,
WALTER J. BLACK'S CLASSICS CLUB INVITES YOU TO ACCEPT
AS A NEW MEMBER
THE COMPLETE WORKS OF
Sluafcesp eare
EVERY word Shakespeare wrote — every com-
edy, tragedy, and historical plaj'; every
poem and sonnet — yours complete in this
beautiful 1312-page volume. Chuckle at the
comedy of Falstaff ; be fascinated by Cleopatra;
thrill with Romeo in the ecstasies of love. Here
is the writer who understood human nature aa
no other ever has!
THE ESSAYS OF
BaeouL
HERE is another titan of the Elizabethan era
— - Sir Francis Bacon, whose surpassing
intellect laid the groundwork of science and
philosophy for generations. Anyone in search of
personal guidance can do no better than to read
these immortal essays . . . about love, politics,
books, business, friendship, and the many other
subjects which Bacon discusses so wisely.
PARADISE LOST AND OTHER POEMS OF
31iltoii
You will be spellbound bj^ Paraiiise Lost — the
supreme achievement of the blind poet who
fought for man's right to think. Or, in a gayer
spirit, you will enjoy "tripping the light fan-
tastic" with L' Allegro. Or again, perhaps, the
dreamy meditation of the beautiful // Pense-
roso will best suit your mood. With this hand-
some volume at hand, you may choose from
tjiirty of Milton's matchless poems.
Why The Classics Club Offers You This Superb Value
VTlTiLL YOU ADD these three volumes to your
' ' library — as an introductory offer made
only to new members of The Classics Club?
You are invited to join today . . . and to
receive on approval beautiful editions of the
world's greatest masterpieces.
These books, selected unanimously by dis-
tinguished literary authorities, were chosen
because they offer the greatest enjoyment
and value to the "pressed for time" men and
women o( today.
Vlhy Are Great Books Called "Classics"?
A true "classic" is a book that will never
grow old. For sheer fascination it can rival
the most thrilling modern novel. Have you
ever wondered how the great books have
become "classics"? First, because they are
so readable. They would not have lived un-
less they were read; they would not have
been read unless they were interesting. To
be interesting they had to be easy to un-
derstand. And those are the very qualities
which characterize these selections: read-
ability, interest, simplicity.
Only Book Club of Its Kind
The Classics Club is different from all
other book clubs. 1. It distributes to its mem-
bers the world's classics at a low price. 2. Its
members are not obligated to take any spe-
cific number of books. 3. Its volumes are
luxurious De Luxe Editions — bound in the
fine buckram ordinarily used for $5 and SIO
bindings. They have tinted page tops; are
richly stamped in genuine gold — books you
and your children will cherish for years.
A Trial Membership Invitation to You
You are invited to accept a Trial Member-
ship. With your first books will be sent an
advance notice about future selections. You
may reject any book you do not wish. You
need not take any specific number of books
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Mail this Invitation Form now. The low
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respond promptly. THE CLASSICS CLUB,
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THE CLASSICS CLUB WR
Roslyn, L. I., New York
Please enroll me as a Trial Member and send
me the THREE beautiful Classics Club lOdi-
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LOST AND OTHER POEMS OF MILTON plotured
above which I may keep for only si.oo plus a
few cents mailins charges — the spechil new-
memhor introductory price for ALL THU1;k
volumes. If not completely satisfied after seven
days' examination. I may return all 3 books
and owe nothing.
.\s a member, lam not obligated to take any
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.Mso. I may reject any volume before or after I
receive it. and I may cancel my membership
whenever I wish.
For each future Club volume I decide to keep
I will send you the low price of 82.89 plus a few
cents mailing charges. (Hooks shipped in U.S.A.
only.)
f Mre. 1
\ Miss )
(Please Print Plainly)
Address.
Zone No.
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I WAS GOING
BROKE ON
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So I Sent $7 to
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Believe me, reading The Journal every
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LETTERS
!
but I feel the college is making soiw
good friends in your country. On bi
half of the students I do thank you win
all my heart.
C. M. Drury, Principa'
Umtali Teacher Training Schoo
Sakubva, Southern Rhodesi;
Schools and reading rooms in undo
developed countries urgently need booi
in English— both fiction and nonfictioj
—to be used for study, not entertain
ment. Many schools and organizatioB
have already responded to Hnrfyer's firi
request— the most recent project vi
knoAv, of is a collection of more thaj
100,000 textbooks from Arizona schooli
You can mail books to:
Books froim America
P. O. Box 1960
Washington, D. C.
i
There they will be sorted, packed, ani
shipped abroad to where they are mcl
needed. Books from America is not ab!
to send books marked for specific ii
dividuals or places.— T/ze Editors
Who's on First
f
To THE Editors:
That was an excellent article 1
Marion K. Sanders ["New York Is D'
ferent," July]. It describes eloquent
the amazing confusion which permeat
Democratic politics in New York Ci
this year. Unfortunately, this confusi(
among highly respected Democrat
leaders concentrating on their domes
house cleaning made it impossible to i
list an'y of the best among them in
fusion movement to restore honest a'
effective administration of our C
affairs. This, to me, represents confusii
worse confounded.
Stanley M. Isaj
Minority Leac
The City Coun
New York, N
Marion K. Sanders has an acute <
for political syntax and a Leica-eye I
the stylistic nuances of urban politi
Her witty piece will surely find its v
into the anthologies for political-sciei
students, to their edification as well
amusement. I can only rue the fact tl
fate (or Mrs. Sanders) made of the
cat candidate, Hal Dinsmore, a politii
science major. I entertain the hope t
he was low man in his class or that
was really an English major travel
under false colors.
V. O. Ki Y,
Prof, of Governm
Harvard IJnivcr
Cambridge, M
1
your first lesson: "A Suburban Street"
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Each lesson includes an 11" x 17" full color
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You begin to understand as never before the
pathos, the joy, the nostalgia that Utrillo poured
into this great work. Finally you experience the
special thrill reserved for those who have com-
pleted a real oil painting.
How the Course Operates
Each lesson brings you the work of another
great master. Month by month you develop
your knowledge and skill by painting pictures
that will astonish your friends— and add unique
beauty to your home. You learn to appreciate
great art as few people can— for you can analyze
color, brush strokes, and shading through the
eyes of the masters themselves.
Upon enrolling you will receive FREE a 19-
piece oil paint set (retail value $8.00), a 16-page
booklet, and a Magic Color Wheel which shows
how to mix paints professionally.
Each lesson in the course will contain: A
16"x20" Full Color Reproduction of the master-
piece you will paint, ready for framing; a 16"x20"
preprinted Canvas Textured Painting Sheet; an
11" X 17" Step-by-Step Instruction Sheet.
You may receive a complete lesson every
other month and be billed for the low price of
only $2.98, plus shipping, per lesson-or a les-
son every month for only $2.48, plus shipping,
a saving of 50 cents per lesson.
No-Risk Guarantee
After receiving your free gifts and your first les-
son, you may examine them in your own home
for 10 days. If you change your mind, you may
cancel your enrollment by returning everything
unused and owe nothing. If you do not cancel,
we will enroll you for one year. Send no money
now-just the coupon.
JOIN THE THOUSANDS OF MEN AND WOMEN
WHO FIND PAINTING A SATISFYING HOBBY
— from Presidents and Prime Ministers to
business and professional men, career girls
and housewives. It will never be easier or less
expensive for you to begin.
ED EC THIS SPECIAL 19-PiECE
rKCC PROFESSIONAL OIL PAINT SET
Includes Everything You
Need to Paint!
1. 12 tubes of oil point
2. 3 brushes
3. Palette
4. Palette knife
and cup
5. Turpentine
mixture
6. Sturdy case ^'
RETAIL $Q00
PRICE *0""
THE PAINT-IT-YOURSELF ART PROGRAM, Dept. 1-HA-9
Garden City, New York
Please enroll me in the Paint-It- Yourself
Art Program Course checked below. Send me
FREE my 19-piece professional oil paint set;
the booklet, "It's Fun to Paint in Oil"; and
the Magic Color Wheel. Also send my first
painting lesson on Utrillo.
n One lesson every other month for a
year at $2.98, plus shipping, per lesson.
□ One lesson every month for a year at
$2.48, plus shipping, per ksson.
MR.
MRS
MISS (please print)
ArfHrp«:<!
-Zone State-
City
I must be perfectly delighted or I may return
everything unused within 10 days and cancel my
enrollnu.-it. (Offer good in r.S. A. only) AP-12
JOHN FISCHER
THE EDITOR'S EASY CHAIR
Money Bait
ALMOST by accident, a new method has
been discovered for attracting weahh. It
has never been publicly reported, so far as I
can find— although one group of financiers is
now quietly using it in an operation which prom-
ises to be highly profitable. Apparently they are
the first to fully understand the formula, and to
put it to deliberate use.
Earlier it had been tested successfully in two
states— Massachusetts and California— but these
demonstrations Avere inadvertent. Most of the
people concerned did not quite grasp what was
happening, or why. This isn't surprising, be-
cause the demonstrations occurred piecemeal,
over a period of about fifteen years, without any
conscious plan.
Once the formula is widely known, however,
it should be possible to apply it more quickly in
at least a dozen other places. The South, Puerto
Rico, and the Pacific Northwest look like the
best bets. All of them have one of the two vital
ingredients, and probably can create the other if
they really try. The result might well be a sur-
prisingly rapid rise in new factories, skilled em-
ployment, and per capita income. In certain
other states, however, it is never likely to work,
for reasons to be noted in a moment.
Our poorer communities have, of course, been
looking for just such a recipe for generations.
They have tried many kinds of lures to attract
new industries. The favorite has been tax con-
cessions—sometimes, as in the case of Puerto
Rico, complete tax exemption for as long as
twenty years. Often they have put up new build-
ings and offered them at low rent (or none) to
any factory that would move in. In addition
they usually have promised cheap labor, and
some Southern states have hinted loudly that
newcomers wouldn't have to worry about trouble
with labf>r unions.
All too rrcquenlly the catch has proved dis-
appoiniing. For the kind of industry that will
snap at sucli bait is hardly worth having. The
South, for examfjie, succeeded in enticing a good
many textile mills away trom New England— but
the industry already was in decline, and its low
wages certainly have bestowed no crescendo of
prosperity on the Carolinas or Georgia.
On the other hand, the exciting growth indus-
tries—electronics, for instance— aren't interested
in cheap labor. They need highly skilled men
and are willing to pay almost any price to get
them— as anyone can see by glancing at the help-
wanted ads in Scientific American or the Sunday
New York Times. Neither are they much inter-
ested in low taxes, because low taxes mean poor
schools. Such schools can't turn out the kind of
brains these industries need; moreover, the men
they seek aren't willing to settle in communities
where their children will be doomed to a second-
rate education.
In fact, the major growth industries of the
postwar era— the prizes any ambitious community
would love to get— differ in six important charac-
teristics from the old-fashioned industries such
as steel, textiles, and automobiles:
1. They mostly produce items of small size but
great value: transistors, magnetic tape, automa-
tion-control instruments, micro-bearings, com-
puters, missile-fuel pumps, pharmaceuticals,
inertial-guidance systems, to mention a few.
2. They do not use huge tonnages of raw
material and fuel.
3. Consequently they don't have to locate near
ore bodies or coal mines. Nor are they dependent
on river transport or rail lines. Indeed so far as
physical requirements are concerned, they can
locate practically anywhere they please.
4. Their plants usually operate without noise,
smoke, or smell. Therefore they don't blight the
surrounding neighborhoods as a steel mill or
paper factory does. On the contrary, these new-
type factories are often an enhancement to the
community. The cluster of Johnson & Johnson
plants near New Brunswick, New Jersey— each a
handsome specimen of architecture in a campus-
like setting— is a noteworthy example.
5. They aren't greatly concerned about unions.
For one thing, their scientific and other white-
collar workers are almost impossible to organize.
For another, wage costs aren't decisive. What is
decisive is the quality of the product— plus con-
stant innovation of improved or entirely new
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THE EDITOR'S EASY CHAIR
items. If a production team can come up with a
better silicon diode or a more efficient process
for making antibiotics, management isn't in-
clined to haggle about salaries.
6. Their one critical requirement, therefore, is
brain power. If they hope to stay ahead of the
competition, they must at all costs attract (and
hold) really first-rate scientists, technicians, and
executives.
IT is interesting to note the places where such
industries have, in fact, chosen to locate. Al-
though some are scattered in many parts of the
country, they have tended to gravitate toward
two great concentrations: one in Southern Cali-
fornia, the other in the Boston area. In the
latter, they have sprouted thickest along Route
128— the semicircular expressway built a few
years ago through what was then open country-
side to by-pass the traffic-choked metropolitan
area of Boston. According to Dr. F. Leroy Foster,
director of the Division of Sponsored Research
for Massachusetts Institute of Technology, more
than four hundred plants are now turning out
electronic components or associated products
within a twenty-mile radius of the Charles River
Basin, the center of the area. Virtually all of
them have been established since the war, and
most within the last ten years.
The comparable concentration in Southern
California covers a wider area, and has been even
more spectacular in its rate of growth. San
Diego, for instance, increased its factory employ-
ment by 54 per cent between 1954 and 1959,
while Los Angeles reported a 21 per cent gain.
Why have such plants sprung up in these two
places— rather than in, say, Arkansas, Mississippi,
or upstate New York, which need new industry
much more desperately? Certainly not because
California and Massachusetts did a better promo-
tion job or offered bigger tax and wage incen-
tives; their promotion has been negligible and
their tax incentives nil.
By happenstance, however, both areas did offer
two powerful attractions:
1. A pleasant environment to live in.
2. Great universities.
These often turned out to be the decisive con-
siderations for a management which was worry-
ing about the recruitment of key personnel.
To begin with, many of the people they
wanted already had their roots down in these
communities. They were faculty members or
graduate students at MIT, Harvard, Boston Uni-
versity, Brandeis, or at Caltcrh, Stanford, or one
of liie many campuses of the University of Cali-
fornia. (Indeed such people frequently start a
factory thcrmsclvcs. MIT alumni have organized
seventy-five new comjjanies in the Boston area
since the war. And the firm which cveiiiuaily
grew into the Raytheon Company was originally
founded by Dr. Vannevar Bush- wartime director
of the Office of Scientific Research and Develop-
ment—and two friends, who wanted to make a
special kind of thermostat. Raytheon now em-
ploys 40,000 people— the great majority in
twenty-five plants near Boston.)
Moreover, other scientists can easily be per-
suaded to move to an area which has a complex
of good universities. There they can keep in
touch with the research under way in the best
laboratories. They can consult whenever neces-
sary with the leading minds in their fields.*
Above all, they have company. In the eve-
nings they can visit with friends who share their
interests and talk their language. And not merely
with other scientists. These people frequently
are true intellectuals, with a wide range of inter-
ests. They like to live in a community of scholars
—historians, writers, sociologists, even an oc-
casional artist— and they enjoy being near good
libraries, good orchestras, good art galleries. If
you plunked them 'down in Spearfish, South
Dakota, they would go out of their minds with
boredom; no amount of money could persuade
them to stay there.
Robert S. McNamara is a case in point. A Phi
Beta Kappa and once an assistant professor at
Harvard, he is typical of the new breed of cor-
porate executive. And it is significant that even
after he became president of the Ford Motor
Company he continued to live in Ann Arbor—
thirty-eight miles from his office— because, as
Time reported, "it is a university town" and he
had "a liking for the academic life." (Or, to put
it less tactfully, no intellectual is likely to live in
Detroit if he can avoid it.) Dr. Bush provides
another object lesson. After his retirement as
president of the Carnegie Institution, he returned
to MIT because he enjoyed "the excitement of
its intellectual ferment."
By coincidence, both Southern California and
the Boston area offered not only intellectual
ferment but also pleasant places to live. The
charms of Southern California (for some people,
anyhow) are well known. And the construction
of Route 128 made it possible for a man to live
in the Boston suburbs, or in the rolling, wooded
hills beyond, and still drive to his plant in a
few minutes.
It is no coincidence, of course, that these
localities also had good schools. Any area that
abounds in first-rate universities is almost sure
to have better-than-average primary and second-
ary schools, both public and private. For almost
* Dr. Wernhcr von Braun, the rocket scientist, re-
cently made tlie same point in asking the Alabama
legislature for money to expand a small research
center near the state university. "It's not water, or
real estate, or labor, or power, or cheap taxes which
brings industry," he said. "It's !)rainp()wer. . . . What
do yon think attracted the aircraft industry to the
Los Angeles area? The desert and smog? No, it was
UCLA [and the other great universities there]."
<
2i
[ The passions
Gthat move men
to create history. •«
The 1934 assassination (pictured) of Alexander 1
of Yugoslavia and French Foreign Minister Louis
Barthou removed two opponents of Axis ambi-
tions in Europe — helping to open the way for
encroachments by Hitler, and hastening the ad-
vent of World War II.
For although passions that move men to create
history may be peculiar to the time and place,
their consequences are the legacy of us all. Just
as our hves today are shaped in part by Sir.
Francis Drake's defeat of the Spanish Armada—
so is our future now being perceptibly altered by
the seething aspirations of people in Rhodesia,
Havana, Laos and Peiping.
For a meaningful understanding of the present,
the thoughtful reader seeks new insights in the
fascinating panorama of the past. To help you
do so — at substantial savings — we invite you to
membership in The History Book Club.
DEATH OF A KING , . . Marseilles, October 9, 1934 (World Wide Photo).
THE HISTORY BOOK CLUB INVITES YOU TO ACCEPT
ANY THREE BOOKS Off HISTORY
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firebrand. LIST PRICE $6.75
r 297. BETWEEN WAR AND PEACE:
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Herbert Fcis. The controversial
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of July, 1945 — and how it shaped
our times. Current Pulitzer Prize
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V 296. THE JEFFERSON IMAGE IN
THE AMERICAN MIND, by M. D.
Peterson. Winner of the latest Ban.
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374. Dual Selection: lUPliU SUB-
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244. FIELD MARSHAL VON MAN-
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287. GRANT MOVES SOUTH, by
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N. Y. Times. LIST PRICE $6.50
101. HISTORY OF THE GERMAN
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Walter Coerlitz. From Clausewitz
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274. THE ARMADA, by Garrett
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265. WINSTON CHURCHILL;
MEMOIRS OF THE SECOND
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294. THE COMMUNIST PARTY OF
THE SOVIET UNION, by Leonard
Schapiro. How a militant party
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power — from 1870 to Khrushchev.
631 pages. LIST PRICE $7.50
289. COMMUNIST CHINA AND
ASIA, by A. Doak Barnett. An ob-
jective and sobering picture of the
raw power now challenging the
West. LIST PRICE $6.95
356. NEITHER WAR NOR PEACE:
The Struggle for Power in the
Postwar World, by Hugh Seton-
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363. TURMOIL AND TRADITION,
by Elting E. Morison. The Stirring
life and turbulent times of Henry
L. Stimson. LIST PRICE $7.50
278. MEMOIRS OF FIELD MAR-
SHAL MONTGOMERY. His out-
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370. POWER & RESPONSIBILITY:
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baugh. LIST PRICE $7.50
227. VICTORY: THE LIFE OF LORD
lilELSON, by Oliver Warner.
LIST PRICE $6.50
364. THE NEAR EAST IN HIS'
TORY: A 5,000-Year Story, by
JP. K. Hitti. LIST PRICE $10.0Q
TO READERS who wish to sharc in the drama of the eternal
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As a member, nearly 100 outstanding titles in fine perma-
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THE HISTORY BOOK CLUB. Stamford, Conn.
THE HISTORY BOOK CLUB HA-4244
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Please enroll me as a member and send at once the three selections
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It
FROM THE
Metropolitan
M
useum
of Art
DISTINCTIVE
AND
UNUSUAL
CHRISTMAS CARDS
-^ A new catalogue of the famous Metropolitan
Museum cards -each one based on a work of art
from the Museum's own collections. This year, a
Japanese goldsmith's sketch, a rubbing from a
medieval church bell, five prancing deer from a
patchwork quilt, a carved golden angel, a jeweled
book cover and a Victorian Christmas illustration
are some of the sources of the nearly sixty new
designs. -^ The cards, printed in limited editions,
under the direct supervision of the Museum, cost
from 5 to 95 cents each. The catalogue— which also
illustrates Museum jewelry and other Christmas
presents — will be mailed about September 1st.
♦««>»««»»»»♦♦♦♦»♦*»«»«»«♦«»«««**»*♦♦«»»♦♦♦♦♦♦*»*♦*»»«»«
The Metropolitan Museum of Art
233 Grade Station, New York 28
Please send me the Museum's new catalogue of
Christmas cards, 25 cents enclosed H2
A'ame-
Address^
THE EDITOR'S EASY CHAIRS
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BOSTON • CHICAGO • PHILADELPHIA • MONTREAL
by definition, intellectuals are pas-
sionate about education, and insist
on getting the best they can for their
children.
Finally, such people are apt to be
sensitive to their physical surround-
ings. Because they detest ugliness,
they can sometimes muster enough
public opinion to fight back the
tide of billboards, juke joints, used-
car lots, and Tastee-Freez stands
which has overwhelmed so much of
the American landscape. (Witness
the civic uproar which saved Walden
Pond.) Both Los Angeles and down-
town Boston are hideous enough,
God knows, but their outlying ac-
ademic communities generally have
managed to preserve little islands of
green and ordered serenity.
Since the key men in a space-age
factory also are likely to value these
things, it is only sensible to locate
the plant where they are already
available. Provided, of course, that
the universities are there too.
THE business firm which first spot-
ted this pattern of behavior, and
tried to make a profit out of it, ap-
parently was the City Investing
Company of New York City.
It discovered one-half of the for-
mula about eight years ago. Its
original idea was to buy up a twenty-
thousand-acre tract of woodland on
the west side of the Hudson River,
tliirty miles from Manhattan, and to
develop there a cluster of modern
research establishments. Each plant
could be set in its own tree-shaded
campus, a comfortable distance away
from any other. Each employee
could have his own country estate—
within walking distance of his work.
On paper, this idyllic planned
community sounded irresistible to
the new type of science-based indus-
tries and their egghead personnel.
Moreover, the company spared noth-
ing to make its Sterling Forest de-
velopment into a sylvan paradise. It
found a choice site— close to Tuxedo
Park and West Point, within easy
reach of the New York Thruway,
endowed with a brook and three
lakes— and it spent hundreds of thou-
sands of dollars on landscaping,
flowers, and shrubs.
But, alas, the scientists didn't
swann in with the expected alacrity.
In 19,57 the Union Carbide Nuclear
Company did begin to do some re-
search there, and has since opened
a new center, while the Sterling
Forest management put up an Inter-
national Research Building of its
own. But there was no stampede
like the one Boston and California
had enjoyed.
The trouble, it seems, was that the
scientists were afraid they would be
lonesome. Who could they talk to
out there in those woods? Chip-
munks? Gardeners? Their wives?
So in 1960 the City Investing peo-
ple hit upon the missing half of the
formula. What they needed, obvi-
ously, was a university.
Last December they got it. The
company gave a thousand acres of
land to New York University, on
condition that it would establish
there a major campus for its science
departments. The school's president
promptly announced plans for set-
ting up an atomic-reactor laboratory,
classrooms and quarters for gradu-
ate students, adult education pro-
grams, and housing for faculty and
research personnel. The develop-
ment may take twenty years to com-
plete, he explained, but eventually
the new campus will be fit company
for the six campuses which NYU
already operates.
That evidently turned the trick.
Four corporations made plans to in-
stall research units in the Sterling
Forest area, before the university got
around to laying its first brick.
Few private financiers are likely to
command the resources (or the fore-
sight) to carry through similar
schemes. But the technique seems
made to order for states that are
eager to attract modern industry.
Some already have a good start, even
though they don't realize it.
In North Carolina, for example,
the area between Chapel Hill and
Durham looks like a natural for such
an enterprise. Both are pleasant
towns. They are surrounded by un-
spoiled (well, all right, not hope-
lessly spoiled) countryside; it could
be handsomely developed— at a profit
—by public purchase and zoning.
The Blue Ridge Mountains are an
easy drive to the west, the Cape Hat-
teras beach about the same distance
cast. In sum, a potential for The
Good Life as promising as anything
Massachusetts or California can
olfer.
And here are two of the best cdu-
15
THE EASY CHAIR
cational institutions in the South:
the University of North Carolina
and Duke. Around this nucleus the
state could— if it made a determined
effort— build up a truly great intel-
lectual center. It might become not
just the best in its region, but one
of the best in America. Inevitably
it would give North Carolina the
educational leadership of the South
—and as a consequence, leadership
in modern industry as well.
It would cost money of course. A
doubling of teachers* salaries, new
buildings, urban renewal, parks and
landscaping, a long-range, well-
thought-out regional plan: all of
these would have to be financed
somehow. (The big national founda-
tions and the tobacco industry might
both be eager to help.) But in the
end the investment ought to pay off
bountifully. In New England the
factory sales of electronic equipment
alone amounted to $749 million in
1 959, and are expected to pass $2 bil-
lion by 1970. Already these factories
have created jobs for nearly a hun-
dred thousand people— almost as
many as the payroll of the region's
entire textile industry.
COMPARABLE opportunities
would seem to be open to Puerto
Rico, with its climatic advantages
and a university already growing
rapidly in stature; to the Puget
Sound region; to Wisconsin, Michi-
gan, and a few other areas which
already have some of the basic in-
gredients.
For certain states, however, this
sort of development seems out of the
question. How could anybody create
either a great university or an entic-
ing environment in Kansas or North
Dakota? The Deep South will con-
tinue to lose, rather than attract,
educated people so long as it threat-
ens to destroy its public-school sys-
tem over the integration issue. (The
North Carolinians, notoriously more
commonsensical than most South-
erners, seem likely to solve this prob-
lem without much uproar.) Texas,
Arizona, Colorado, and Nevada— plus
some others— have not yet demon-
strated that respect for intellect and
education which is necessary to the
growth of great universities. Maine
and Idaho probably couldn't raise
the money.
Clearly the new recipe for indus-
A
WARNING
to people
who have purchased
Dynetic® Phono Cartridges
You own the world^s finest stereo cartridge.
Its superior performance depends upon the Shure
Dynetic Stylus Assembly. An inferior stylus re-
placement will audibly detract from the cartridge
performance . . . and increase record wear.
Laboratory Test Findings:
Shure laboratory tests show that the imitation stylus assemblies labeled
as replacements for the Shure Model N7D Stylus Assembly vary dras-
tically in important performance characteristics. For example, the
compliance varied from a low of 0.9 to a high of 11.5, requiring 9.0
grams to track a record with a low compliance stylus, and 2 grams with
a high compliance stylus. The high compliance stylus retracted at
4 grams needle force, allowing the cartridge case to drag on the record
surface, thereby becoming inoperative. Response at high frequency
(relative to the Ike level) ranged from a 5.5db peak to a drop of 7.5db.
Separation varied from "good" (27db) to "poor" (16.5db) at Ike.
These figures reveal that there is very little consistency in performance
characteristics of the imitation Dynetic Styli.
In each of the categories shown above, the results ranged from good
to poor. As a matter of fact, only 10% of the samples met the Shure
performance standards for the Shure N7D Stereo Dynetic Stylus. In
addition to our test findings, our Service Department records show
that an increasing number of Dynetic Phono Cartridges are being
returned because of poor performance — and our examination has dis-
closed that most of these returned cartridges are using imitation
Dynetic Styli. •
Conclusion: Obviously, if an imitation Dynetic Stylus is used, we
cannot guarantee that the performance of Shure Dynetic cartridges
will meet the published Shure specifications. Accept no substitute.
jJC look for this wording:
"THIS DYNETIC® STYLUS IS PRECISION
MANUFACTURED BY SHURE BROTHERS, INC."
ID
COMING IN THE OCTOBER HARPER'S
A SPECIAL SUPPLEMENT ON
The College Scene
The New Undergraduates and Their Teachers
What is happening in American colleges today? In Harper's com-
ing supplement, young scholars, critics, and teachers probe beneath
the publicized surface of undergraduate life to find what students
are actually learning, thinking, plarming. They present radical
criticism of the sterile and wasteful education many students are
getting — and single out colleges that are succeeding. They examine
both the pretensions and the genuine protest involved in new
undergraduate political activity, conservative and liberal. They
explore both the hypocrisies and pleasures of personal morality
in the colleges.
Dealing with dozens of colleges — from Harvard to Virginia Union,
from Swarthmore to Houston, from Chicago to Cracow, Poland —
they raise questions about the American college system which have
too long gone unasked. Among the features will be:
The Wasted College Classroom
Eager Swarthmore
The Next Thirty Years
The Young Negro Rebels
God in the Colleges
Unreal College Politics
Polish Student Life: A Comparison
The Examination: A Poem
The College Sex Problem
Nathan Glazer
David Boroff
Christopher Jencks
Charlotte Devree
Michael Novak
Philip Rieff
Reuel K. Wilson
W. D. Snodgrass
Milton I. Levine, M.D.
and Maya Pines
THE EASY CHAIR
trialization will not work everywhere
—but it does look too good to re-
main indefinitely the secret weapon
of Massachusetts, California, and the
City Investing Company. It will be
entertaining to see what community
first shows enough enterprise to try
to break their monopoly.
For the contents of the regular October issue, see page 94.
The People-Machine
IN January 1961, Harper's pub-
lished "The People-Machine" by!
Thomas B. Morgan, a report on a
computing device used to forecast
some aspects of voters' behavior in
the last Presidential election. In
May 1961, the Simulmatics Corpora-
tion, which had developed the ma-
chine, offered 150,000 shares of its
common stock for public sale. A
number of readers have called to our
attention the fact that in its offering
circular the company lists Mr. Mor-
gan as a stockholder and Informa-
tion Manager.
In response to an inquiry from the
editors, Mr. Morgan writes: "At the
time I wrote the article I had no re-
lationship, real or implied, present
or promised, with the Simulmatics
Corporation or any of its officers. I
was employed by the corporation as
a free-lance writer in August 1960,
to assist Dr. Ithiel de Sola Pool in
editing three reports for the Demo-
cratic campaign. ... On February 8,
1961, I negotiated a one-year con-
tract as Manager of Information of
the corporation. ... I believed then
as I do now that computer simula-
tion could be a major factor in the
development of our society."
He added that his contract in-
cluded $1,000 compensation for serv-
ices rendered in the last two weeks
of January— about two months after
the delivery of the article.
Like any reputable magazine,
Harper's always tries to make sure
that its rcportorial articles are writ-
ten objectively, by reporters who
have no personal stake in the subject
matter. Consequently we feel wc
ought to inform our readers of the
facts in this case, and of Mr. Mor-
gan's assurance that no conflict of
interest was involved.
—The Editors
I
I
«
Necessity of modern life
Most people take the telephone for granted — until they need it and it isn't
there.
Then they realize that because telephone service is so dependable, is so
efficient, js so widely available, there's usually no reason to give it a second
thought.
At Gen Tel, as at other telephone companies, this kind of telephone service
is the result of much planning and working ahead: developing new equip-
ment to meet needs before they arise, solving operational problems far in
advance, expanding facilities to anticipate soundly projected growth.
But planning and working ahead require investing ahead. And this the
communications industry does willingly, and on a tremendous scale. For,
by prudent foresight, we hope to make your telephone of tomorrow as
economical a necessity as is your telephone today.
In this way, as in others. General Telephone & Electronics is making every
effort to meet the present and future communications needs of the 31
states we serve.
General Telephone & Electronics Corporation, 730 Third Avenue. New York 17.
GENERAL
TELEPHONE &ELECTRONIDS
The
story behind
a sea god's
Scallop
necklace
statue in North Fountain, Place de la Concorde, Paris ►
• Rising in awesome majesty from the
ocean's depths, this was a sea god as the
ancients imagined him.
Why the scallop shells around his mus-
cular neck? The reason is as old as history.
As long as man can remember, the scallop
has been symbolic of the sea and all linked
to it.
It symbolizes the voyage to far shores.
It symbolizes the quest that makes men
dare the wrath of sea gods and other ter-
rors of the unknown. Almost universal in
meaning, this symbol has been understood
through countless centuries— and by people
speaking different tongues.
It was the emblem of Holland's Order
of St. James. Of the Knights of St. Michael
in France. Of medieval pilgrims in solemn
processions to the shrine of Spain's patron
saint. Of men rallying around England's
King Richard in the Crusades. All knew
the scallop to be the badge of the quest.
Today as trademark of the Shell Com-
panies, this symbol goes on world-wide
journeys as Shell men seek for oil. They
probe the earth's continents; they dig in
the ocean's floor. And others, in Shell labo-
ratories, investigate oil's mysteries, search-
ing out new ways to put its incredible
versatility to work for you.
The quest will continue. For it brings
you better gasolines and motor oils. Pro-
vides the farmer with new weapons to fight
pests and save crops. Produces synthetics
that equal and often surpass nature's own
resources.
When you see the sign of the Shell, think
of it as the symbol of a quest for new ideas,
new products and better ways to serve you.
The Shell Companies: Shell Oil Company;
Shell Chemical Company; Shell Pipe Line
Corporation; Shell Development Com-
pany; Shell Oil Company of Canada, Ltd.
t'SHELL OIL COMPANY. 1961
I
Oir> Ki r\r-
WE
TAKE OUR
TEXT
FROM
Khrushchev
"k Communist/' he said in his re-
port to the Central Committee on
February 14, 1956, "has no right to
be a mere onlooker."
The free world may deplore the
methods used in the U.S.S.R. to in-
sure the participation of its citizens
in the plans of the Kremlin. But no
one can deny that Khrushchev, after
all, has put his finger on one of the
strengths of dictatorship — and one
of the weaknesses of democracy.
In our democratic society, you
have the freedom of choice to be
either active or passive, a doer or an
onlooker, as you please. You may
choose simply to stand and watch
the world go by. That is your privi-
lege, and no one can penalize you.
But if there is no law compelling
you to be active, no dictator telling
you that you must take your place
in the ranks — and sending you to
Siberia if you don't — is there not
at least an implied moral obligation
to be a participant rather than sim-
ply a spectator — a moral obligation
with a force far greater than a dic-
tator's rule? By definition, democ-
racy is the rule of the people, and
there is no rule when the people
shirk their rospDnsibilities.
Remember the sense of common
purpose that we all shared in World
War 11, whether we were fighting or
doing defense work or helping the
Red Cross or planting a victory gar-
den? In wartime, most of us accept
the necessity for action — and act.
But when the necessity grows less
urgent, we tend to forget how stim-
ulating it is to be active in a worth-
while cause, how satisfying the
resulting sense of fulfillment. Instead,
we fall back into the old habit of
letting George do it.
Occasionally, a Presidential elec-
tion stirs us out of our apathy, and
we work for the party and the can-
didates we favor — or at least take
the trouble to vote. But after it's
over, too many of us slip back into
the complacent role of the onlooker.
There are many Americans who
regard citizenship as a sinecure, re-
luctantly paying taxes but making
no attempt to influence what is hap-
pening in the government and the
community. Others are too fastidi-
ous or too phlegmatic to espouse a
cause and work for it. Still others
fear involvement and prefer to stay
on the surface of things, shunning
commitment but reserving the right
to criticize. They are living phantom
lives, wasting both the unique op-
portunities for action afforded by
our democracy and their own poten-
tialities as human beings.
They willingly pay lip service to
the two principles of conduct that
motivated our founding fathers —
do your pari and do your hesl — for-
getting that the operative word in
each case is do. Intention, resolu-
tion, decision, determination — these
are not enough. No one will take
the thought for the deed. There is
no credit — and very little satisfac-
tion — in standing on the sidelines.
Participation is what counts — par-
ticipation in the service of whatever
cause is closest to your heart, what-
ever purpose appeals most strongly
to your intelligence.
Work to improve your local
school or library or hospital. Collect
to help conquer the diseases that
now conquer men. Teach English to
newcomers, read to the blind, join a
church project. Run for public office
— or work for someone else who is
running. Further a cause you believe
in by organizing a group to support
it — or at least by taking pen in
hand. As Ecclesiastes put it : "What-
soever thy hand findeth to do, do it
with thy might."
We citizens of this democracy
cannot allow ourselves simply to
stand by in a world where no Com-
munist has the right to be a mere
onlooker. We must bestir ourselves,
accept both the responsibility and
the opportunity for service to com-
munity and country, find our respec-
tive causes and serve them with a
will.
As Oliver Wendell Holmes, Jr.,
said back in 1884:
Js life is action and passion, it is
recjuired of a man that he should
share the passion and action of
his time, at the peril of being
judged not to have lived.
^J)fterrill £ynch^
Pierce^
J-^enner ^(^mith
INCORPORATED
Mvmhas o] tht T^tw Torfc .Slock f xcbdn^f
tin.l :'lhrr principal Stock and ( ommodily l-'xchantjes
70 IMNE STREET, NEW YORK 5, N. Y.
M J ojjii.es in U.S., ( diuulii, drul nl'ioiui
''mmmmm-i
AFTER HOURS
•
' ■
■i
v\
(
h
'=■
<
j
V
'»
MONK TALK by Robert Kotlowitz
Thelonious Monk— the jazz pian-
ist who has been variously
described as "an unpredictable side-
show" and "a pure, individual art-
ist"—lives in a slum neighborhood
in Manhattan bordered by the New
York Central freight yards. This has
been his home since 1924, when, at
the age of four, he forsook his native
North Carolina. One of the signs of
his permanency is a metal-framed
calling card on his front door; it
bears the inscription "T. Monk" in
turn-of-the-century type and may
well be the only one of its kind in
the area. Over the years. Monk has
acquired a wife, now the highly com-
petent executive of his household,
and a couple of children.
He has also, and much more re-
cently, acquired an impressive and
enthusiastic following. Only the past
few years have provided him with
anything like steady employment, al-
though, for as long as he can re-
member, he has wanted to play his
special kind of music. Starting his
career as a teen-age pianist in the
neighborhood community center.
Monk went on to work wherever he
could— for saloons, depression rent
parties, a traveling evangelist, and,
briefly, for Lucky Millinder's band.
In the early 'forties, together with
Charlie Parker, Bud Powell, and
Dizzy Gillespie, among others, Monk
began to join the after-hours jam
sessions at Minton's Playhouse in
Harlem. Critics and chroniclers,
often eager to establish a firm tradi-
tion in print where one may not
exist in reality, had it that Minton's
produced a carefully planned school
of new jazz deliberateh designed to
overthrow everything that {^receded
it. This is dramatic, sentimental,
and not very truthful. If the Minton
sessions were important to yd//, it
was because dissatisfied musicians
came together and discovered they
were dissatisfied with much the same
thing— in simplest terms, the old
ways of jazz. There was little talk
about it; to the best of Monk's recol-
lection, "we just played."
Parker, Powell, and Gillespie, al-
though popular artists long before
Monk, shared his desire to return to
impulse and instinct as the twin
sources of music. Bop was wonderful
to listen to, dull to talk about. It
was music to be played and heard; it
was not, as most of music is not, the
subject for exegesis.
Since Minton's, Monk has put in
21
two full decades of bone-wearying
persistence to maintain his personal
outpost in the avant-garde of jazz.
The problem of where to aj)]>cai
still plagues him today. There arc
more festivals and more concert
dates, but the first are generally
potluck affairs, mixing a stew of ill-
assorted musicians for a few per-
formances, and the second arc
sporadic. There are probably more
night clubs too, but Monk guesses
there are four in the country in
whicli a jazz musician can enjo\
playing— two of them in New York.
"Most club owners," he has said,
"think you're a traveling vaudeville
routine, with a clear-cut act twenty
minutes long that's ready to go on
four times a night. They want every
jazz musician to get a line six blocks
long outside the place every night."
Nevertheless, his records sell and
his price is high for public appear-
ances. Today, Monk appears a
lonely but not separated artist to his
fellow jazzmen, and a dedicated but
not intransigent artist to the critics,
who see in him the si?re qua non of
artistic acceptance in America: per-
sonal integrity. In recent years, he
has been characterized as "one of
the most unmistakably original tal-
ents on the jazz scene," by com-
poser Gunther Schuller, and as "a
major formative influence on jazz-
men—not only pianists and writers,
but players on all instruments," by
critic Nat Hentoff. "Monk stands
out," says drummer Max Roach. He
is "the main reason I came to New
York from Chicago," says arrangei-
composer George Russell, who goes
on to explain that "the first time I
lieard Monk in the 'forties, he
reached me faster and more deeply
than either Gillespie or Parker."
What Monk's audience thinks of
him depends on which audience is
being talked about. There are three.
One is in attendance because it
has gathered that it is the hip thing
to do. Its unstated premise is simj)le:
it is better to appear "in" than "out"
in any context that is fashionable,
even if it also turns out to be totally
incomprehensible. For this audience,
jazz is in and Monk is in, although
what he plays makes little musical
difference. Jazz offers swollen leg-
ends of narcotics, of drink, race guilt,
and violence, bearing a strangely at-
tractive aura of sadness and pain.
For the "hippies," it means an eve-
22
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AFTER HOURS
niiig's brush ^vith emotional anarchy
for the price of a beer.
A second audience comes because
it has heard that Monk is a character.
Monk is a character, in that his nat-
ural differences from other people
are clearly defined and insisted
upon. He speaks, eats, and sleeps
only when he feels like it. He some-
times arrives late for performances,
almost always wears a hat when play-
ing; a goatee covers his chin; and his
baritone voice, often liquid and soft
in conversation, can be hoarse be-
yond imitation. Moreover, he is al-
most as big as his piano, and he
tends to get up in the middle of a
set and dance around the platform
while the members of his group solo.
For this audience, he is a spectacle;
it is sheerest coincidence that a little
music is thrown in.
The third audience, young, ardent,
and often bearded \\iihout being
beat, will come to a night club for a
Monk performance, but it ^\•on't
drink very much. It is loval, intense,
and responsive to the music, Ashich
is Avhat it comes to hear.
-Monk's music— "iUy music," he
always calls it— is dark, like mahog-
any, but not gloomv, staccato but
not nervous. It is old chords, new
( hords, and more chords, almost all
mass and density exploding in
chunks of sound between which care-
fully composed silences fall. It is
\ertical rather than horizontal music,
it has only a tenuous line. \\'hen
Monk serves up a melody, it usually
stays in a corner, ^\here he hoards it
with miserly care; he gets from one
corner to the next riding bizarre
harmonies and thrusting rhythms,
jabbing and rocking like a boxer
making rights, lefts, rights, and some-
times both simultaneously, straight
out and far.
In the past ten years the "sound"
of Monk's music has not changed
dramatically, although it has in-
icnsified, pared doAvn of all Avasie
motion. It cannot be imitated A\ith
;!ny success, ^\'hen another musician
pi( ks up a Monk melody, it crumbles
\\ithout the Monk harmonies; on
the other hand, the harmonies are
so individualistic that only sug-
gestions of them work in another's
playing and even then they must be
iutorjjoratcd carefully. I. ike De-
bussy's work, and for the same rea-
sons, .Monk's music remains a sell-
sulfu lent island.
It is not easy for Monk's kind of
music to hold the listener's attention.
'With only the barest linear quality,
it sometimes loses suspense, and, like
much other contemporary jazz, the
range of its emotional variation of-
ten barely extends from thumb to
forefinger, fully outstretched, \\liat
compels the listener is surprise— the
next note coming where it should
not, the chords, one after the other,
apparently never heard before, the
silences, which fill up before a vac-
uum can set in, and rhythmic j^ro-
pidsion and the beat, immediateh
reaching into the very center of the
listener's nervous energy and taking
hold. Like almost all of jazz, it is
\ery much here-and-now music.
Althotigh he often "re-composes
and imj^roves on standard popular
tunes, Monk usually play5 his own
compositions Avith three or four
other instrtimentalists.
The actual composing is done at
Steinway grand at one end of th
kitchen in Monk's apartment. Since
Monk is inclined to sit down at the
piano at any time, day or night, the
kitchen ceiling is soundproofed,
while all four walls, as well as the
front door which leads right into the
room, are paneled in walnut. \Vher
Monk composes, he is virtually her
meticallv sealed from the outside'
world. He may \\'ork alone or with aj
member of his group, the noise ill'
the rest of the apartment may ejs*.
ceed his piano's volume: he con*
tinues to work. "I find something al-
most every time I sit down at the
piano." he says. "No matter what'i
going on around me."
AV I T H their minimal formal trai
ing, Monk's hands at work would b
the despair of every good plan
teacher in the land. The fingers!
almost never curved, lie nearly fla
on the keys, like ten miniatun
spatulas. The hands themselves ar
small for such an oversized bod
(Monk stands taller than six fee
and, like his work, he has the niass
and density to go with it). He is not
noted for a fabulous technique, but
he can do exactly what he needs to
do. Arpeggios and rims, for example.^
are managed safely enough, althoug
ihey have no great speed or cleanncs
of line. Sometimes he gives up using
his hands entirely, aiming an elbou'
at a tonal cluster with siujDrising .k-
curacy. Monk's dazzle lies in hi^^
\
23
AFTER HOURS
compositions. As a performer, he-
tends to treat the piano for what it
is— a percussion instrument— instead
of trying to disguise its limitations.
Rehearsing with a colleague, he
rarely uses a score. "I've got it all
written down," he says, "but we do
just as well without reading notes.
That way nothing distracts." A re-
hearsal may go on for two hours or
longer. Monk feeds his tenor sax
man, Charlie Rouse, a note or phrase
at a time. Rouse takes it bite by bite,
each note or phrase a mouthful
digested to bewildered shakings of
the head. It can take the entire two
hours to get one full minute of
music set between the two.
Monk and Rouse say their notes,
as though music were the simplest,
most direct language available to
man, and, even more, as though B-C
sharp, played on an instrument,
means something as precise and un-
mistakable as C-A-T. Throughout
the rehearsal. Monk directs with
short comments. "You're not making
it," he says placidly after the seventh
repetition of an octave jump. "Dig
it." Well into the next phrase,
Monk says, "Don't touch the note,
hit it. And when you hit it, aug-
ment it."
To visitors, he is as terse. "This
i dragging you?" he asks politely as
the repetitions continue. When sat-
isfied, Monk utters his favorite com-
ment, the word "Solid," pronounced
slowly and with geometric firmness.
Once the rehearsal is over. Monk
likes to relax by listening to jazz
records. He may start to dance, a
glass of orange juice in his hand.
"Jazz is America musically. It's all
jazz, everywhere," he says, rocking
loosely to the music. "When I was
a kid, I felt something had to be
iJone about all that jazz. So I've
been doing it for twenty years.
Maybe I've turned jazz another way.
(Maybe I'm a major influence. I don't
know. Anyway, my music is my
tnusic, on my piano, too. That's a
criterion of something. Jazz is my
idventure. I'm after new chords,
hew ways of syncopating, new fig-
urations, new runs. How to use
lotes differently. That's it. Just
ising notes differently." So Monk
alks, creating little dances in his
itchen, swinging away under a
)Iack beanie from Chinatown, keep-
ng a telescopic eye out for the mov-
ng frontiers of jazz.
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KENNEDY'S ECONOMISTS
What they want . . . Where they disagree . . .
Where the power lies . . . What they are likely to do
HOBART ROWEN
JOHN FITZGERALD KENNEDY
came to the Presidency committed to "get
this country moving again." With an urgent
appeal that may have accounted for the differ-
ence between his vote and Nixon's, Kennedy
crusaded for a faster rate of economic growth,
for instilling new hope in depressed areas, and
for broad health, education, and welfare pro-
grams. Fearlessly, he attacked Eisenhower's tight
money policies and acknowledged the need for a
larger governmental role in the nation's eco-
nomic life. Accurately, he diagnosed the symp-
toms and causes of the recession, and promised
swift steps to correct it.
All this suggested that Kennedy would initiate
a new economic era in which the neurotic Re-
publican fear of deficits would be leplaced by a
modern fiscal policy devised by the best brains
available. It would be an exciting period,
dominated by men of great intellect who would
be encouraged to test new ideas.
With half of the first Kennedy year gone, how
much progress has been made toward fulfilling
this program? On the plus side, the Administra-
tion proposed, and Congress has approved, a
number of measures to counter recession— a tem-
porary extension of unemployment compensa-
tion, aid to depressed areas and to dependent
children, a boost in minimum wages, and a hous-
ing bill. There has been a speed-up of tax re-
funds, veterans' life-insurance dividends, and
scheduled government construction. A package
of key tax-reform proposals— with more promised
for next year— was sent to Congress, as were bills
for permanent improvements in unemployment
compensation and social security, federal aid to
education, and a medical-care program. On all
these measures, except for medical care and edu-
cation, partial or full Congressional action is
hoped for during the 1961 session.
And surely, not the least of Kennedy's achieve-
ments has been his ability to attract talented
economic advisers who have breathed new life
into the Council of Economic Advisers, the
Budget Bureau, and the Treasury.
Yet all this falls far short of the bright prom-
ise; the nation has had to settle for a limited
program which is unlikely to result in full em-
ployment or a significant rise in our economic
growth rate. Especially discouraging is the
specter of continuing heavy unemployment, an
26
KENNEDY'S ECONOMISTS
ugly and costly anachronism in an affluent land.
The hard fact of the matter is that President
Kennedy has been somewhat timid in his ap-
proach to business and finance. In retrospect it
seems clear that his instincts are more conserva-
tive than the tone of his campaign speeches.
Furthermore, his acute sense of political realities
has persuaded him to dilute some of his economic
goals. Indeed the political "constraints" dovetail
neatly with his own middle-of-the-road views.
For example, he opposed a tax cut as an anti-
lecession device because— as he frankly told his
key advisers before his inauguration— he felt it
conflicted with the "posture of sacrifice" he in-
tended to ask of the country. In subsequent dis-
cussions he also made clear his view that a tax
cut would throw the federal budget too far out
of balance, and that Congress would not "buy'*
the idea, anyway.
Temporarily, the cautious approach was ac-
ceptable to liberals. The President had inherited
a seriously adverse balance of payments situa-
tion; an image of the new Democratic President
as a careful, prudent custodian of the dollar had
to be cultivated. Moreover, as Professor Paul A.
Samuelson of Massachusetts Institute of Tech-
nology pointed out in January, in his task force
report on the economy, "one cannot realistically
expect to undo in 1901 the inadequacies of
several years. It is not realistic to aim for the
restoration of high employment within a single
calendar year."
These words set the pace for the Kennedy pro-
gram, which consisted of some mild immediate
measures to attack recession to be followed by a
second look at the situation in the spring. And
Kennedy's Chairman of the Council of Economic
Advisers, Walter W. Heller of the University of
Minnesota, concurred.
By April there was some evidence of a business
upturn. Meantime European speculators who
bid up the world price of gold in the hope that
Kennedy would devalue the dollar gave up their
costly game. The price of gold settled back to
|35 an ounce. As Per Jacobsson, Managing Di-
rector of the International Monetary Fund, put
it, "The stock market went up and the price of
gold went down."
Kennedy thus cleared his first hurdles. At the
same time he turned aside the warnings of his
Council which argued along with Samuelson
that, apart from recession, there was a basic
weakness in the economy. "We were sluggish and
tired," Samuelson said, and must take steps to
make sure that recovery won't "peter out" in
a year or two, well below the nation's capacity.
This thesis was developed in detail before the
Joint Economic Committee of Congress on
March 6 by Heller with his fellow Council
members, the quietly brilliant Professor James
Tobin of Yale* and Professor Kermit Gordon
of Williams College. "An economic upturn
would be only the beginning, not the end of the
solution to our economic problems," Heller said.
He demonstrated that our fabled productive ma-
chine was limping along at least 8 per cent under
capacity, wasting resources at a rate not even the
richest nation could afford. He estimated the
gap between actual and potential output as
about $50 billion, roughly equivalent to $500
per household. And this calculation was based
on a growth rate of only 3.5 per cent— the sum
of a normal 2 per cent productivity gain, plus a
1.5 per cent rise in the labor force. Heller thus
steered away from talk of high rates of growth,
although the Democratic platform had set 5 per
cent as a goal, and many independent groups be-
lieve a 4.5 per cent growth rate is necessary and
attainable. And certainly, 3.5 per cent looks
modest when set against the recent gains on both
sides of the Iron Curtain in Europe.
Heller outlined the "expansionary policies re-
quired by the serious economic problems we
face." Among the possibilities were a temporary
consumer tax cut, stimulation of investment in
physical and human resources, more housing
programs, and a strong effort to lower interest
rates. There was so much slack in the economy,
he argued, that government spending could be
increased with little fear of a delayed inflationary
Hobart Roiven is on the Washington staff of
"Newsweek" and is the author of "America's Most
Powerful Private Club," the influential article on
the Commerce Department's Business Advisory
Council which appeared in "Harper's" a year ago.
It received the Sigma Delta Chi award and was
cited for helping to "craek the secrecy barrier
surrounding the activities of the BAC." Mr. Rowen
formerly worked for the "Journal of Commerce"
and the War Production Board.
* Wlien Tobin was invited early in January to take
a Council post, he was a bit reluctant. Kennedy
called him directly at Heller's sugp^estion, but Tobin
warned him tliat an article he had written for a uni-
versity publication, scheduled to appear shortly, was
highly critical of the Federal Reserve. Tobin thought
this might be embarrassing, but Kennedy was un-
perturbed. Finally, Tobin said: "Senator, you don't
want me in the Council. Fm an ivory tower econo-
mist." Answered Kennedy: "Thals's the best kind.
I'm an ivory tower President."
BY HOBART ROWEN
27
impact. "We do not accept the gloomy doctrine,"
Heller told Congress, "that economic expansion
is inherently inconsistent with reasonable price
stability and balance in our international ac-
counts."
ECONOMIC SUGAR PILLS
THERE, in the public records of the
Joint Committee of Congress, a basic pro-
gram for action was laid out for Mr. Kennedy—
if he wanted it. But the President, bit by bit,
showed himself more wary than Mr. Heller. His
cautious attitude was encouraged by another top-
ranking adviser. Treasury Secretary Douglas
Dillon, who felt that the nation might recover
more quickly than Heller and Samuelson had
predicted. If so, there would be less reason for
new stimuli.
But the chief reason for Kennedy's hesitancy
is that he doesn't want to be tagged as a "big
spender." Conscious of the ])olitical expediency
of "fiscal integrity"— a phrase Eisenhower made
famous— he also has a surprisingly orthodox con-
cern of his own about a big federal deficit. Fur-
thermore, the concept of "public works." for him,
smacks of boondoggling, or spending just for
spending's sake.
Orte ^^ bis important advisers observes: "The
President sets grt^t store by the business of being
considered fiscally sounri-imd he is extremely
sensitive to criticism from the rtght, "* Thus, he
was stung when Eisenhower, at a Republican din-
ner in Jime criticized his policies and denotmced
all budget deficits as "immoral." Kennedy's in-
stinct is to prove his critics wrong, which in this
case implies limitations on his policies that his
liberal advisers find oppressive.
Criticism of Kennedy from the left, on the
other hand, has been gentle— at least in public.
Walter Reuther bitterly assailed the Administra-
*Thi.s is evident also in areas not directly associated
with spending or public works. For example, the
Administration dropped like a hot potato its own
plan to remove the 25 per cent gold backing of the
dollar as soon as it became clear that there would be
a fight on the Hill. Representative Abraham |. Mul-
ter introduced a bill which would have abandoned
this archaic requirement, thus helping assure the
world that in any future dollar crisis, the entire stock
of U.S. gold would be available for sale. Most
modern experts, including some of the best minds in
Wall Street, have long favored this step. Dillon was
ready to testify for the legislation until Multer re-
ceived an avalanche of protests from arch-conserva-
tives. Multer postponed tlie hearings— and the Ad-
ministration retreated, presumably unwilling to do
or die on this issue.
tion in the privacy of the Labor Management
Advisory Committee for losing a sense of urgency.
But his and other labor leaders' public speeches
have been fairly mild. Democratic liberals in
Congress, like Senator Paul Douglas of Illinois
and Congressman Henry Reuss of W'isconsin
have pulled their punches, too, although both
feel that Kennedy has been fearful of running
up a big deficit. Senator Joseph Clark of Penn-
sylvania, who expected Kennedy to back a public-
works bill he introduced, and then was left alone,
out on a limb, hasn't even been petulant.
"We feel somewhat restrained in the use of
rhetoric when it comes to one of our own," says
a lawmaker who is a Democrat, a liberal— and a
politician.
The major liberal critique of the Administra-
tion program was made in May in an excellent
majority report of the Joint Economic CoiTi-
mittee of Congress. It praised Kennedy's initial
efforts, but called them "small as compared to
the gap between the nation's expected economic
performance and its economic potential."
Liberals have held their fire in part because a
good deal of the Kennedy legislative program
has reached long-desired but hitherto unobtain-
able goals. Finder Eisenhower, for instance, a
special program for depressed areas was just talk.
Now it is a reality. And if the new minimum-
wage law is a compromise, it is nevertheless a
step forward. As Arthur Goldberg says with a
smile: "It's hard to get outraged at a President
just because he doesn't agree with everything that
^Vei V-body proposes."
But wtiiie Ifibor and the liberals have muted
their complaints, coiiservatives have had no rea-
son to be inarticulate. So the piTssures on Ken-
nedy haA'e been chiefly from the right, ftiit^ he
appears to have concluded that neither the coun-
try nor Congress can be pushed too fast.
After Kennedy's first few weeks in office, Pro-
fessor Samuelson observed: "You might say we
are in the midst of a 'placebo program for re-
covery.' " Because of his narrow margin over
Nixon, and some "popular misconceptions" in
Congress about a budget-balance every year,
"Kennedy has put forward what is a rather
modest program for recovery and growtli" in-
stead of urging "whatever ought to have been
done."
"It is well," Samuelson said, "to have no
illusions about the magnitudes of the proposed
measures. Even if the American economy begins
to turn up by the middle of 1961, there is little
reason to think that the end of the year will find
us with unemployment much better than at the
28
KENNEDY'S ECONOMISTS
present time. A genuine quickening of economic
growth, . . . even to the 81/2 to 4 per cent annual
rates the economy should be again capable of,
will have to wait until the second and third years
of President Kennedy's term of office."
Thus, in effect, Kennedy has decided that the
I'. S. will be allowed to limp along this year, and
oerhaps next, while unemployment ranges some-
\vhere close to (or even above) 6 per cent of the
labor force, with a good share of the U. S. plant
capacity lying tragically idle.*
JOBS OR MOON SHOTS?
THIS policy is the outcome of a long
behind-the-scenes struggle between the "ex-
pansionists" and the more conservative of
Kennedy's advisers. The former might well have
come out on top had it not been for Soviet space-
man Gagarin, our tragic intervention in Cuba,
and the floimdering in Laos. These events pre-
cluded a vast civilian spending program when
the time came for the "second look" this spring.
Kennedy still encourages tlie avant-garde wing of
his Administration— Heller and Labor Secretary
Goldberg— to speak their pieces in public as well
as in closed session. He is quite willing for them
ro goad public opinion toward more decisive ac-
tion—not, however, to be undertaken this year.
What happened was this: Heller at one time
had a preliminary go-ahead from the President
on a program keyed to Senator Clark's bill,
which proposed federal grants of up to a billion
dollars for local public works. Still other federal
money woidd have been ticketed for parks,
forests, stream-pollution control, and for retrain-
ing jobless workers.
Then on April 12 Gagarin took off, and the
misadventure in Cuba followed just a week later.
Earlier setbacks in Southeast Asia had already
convinced Kennedy and the National Security
Council that spending for conventional armed
forces and on guerrilla tactical operations would
have to be raised. The civilian spending pro-
gram, which had already been whittled down,
*.Stiulies made by Joint Committee economist James
Knowles suggest that official government figures under-
state the unemployment problem. For one thing, the
Census sample includes the self-employed, who rarely
suffer unemph)yment in the usual sense. Moreover,
(he commonly used figures don't include those who
(an find only part-time jobs. Making these and other
allowances, Knowles finds that the Labor Department
unemployment figure of nearly 7 per cent at mid-
Mimmer equates to abf)ut 10 per cent of the labor
lorcc available lor hire to others.
went out the window altogether, when Kennedy
decided that our national prestige required a
massive effort to land a man on the moon and
return him safely to earth.
Heller and the Economic Council conceded
that the accelerated military and space program
would stimulate the economy, especially in fu-
ture years. But for the immediate period ahead,
the Cotincil still thought some works spending
was warranted. To reassure those who feared an
inflationary impact, Heller proposed adding a
"trigger" to the Clark bill, which would start up
public works spending only if the jobless total
remained about 6.5 per cent. (From December
through July, unemployment hovered between
6.5 and 6.9 per cent of the labor force.)
But the job-retraining program was the only
civilian program to survive the "second look" in
May; the President decided that $800 million for
military and space programs, which would bring
the fiscal 1962 deficit* to .$3.7 billion, was enough.
Moreover, he fretted over the prospect that space
projects alone will soon cost $3 billion a year. By
the end of Jvily, the Berlin crisis forced him to
propose even more red ink. He asked Congress
for preparedness spending that would hoist the
deficit to at least $5.3 billion. Thus (although it
was guns instead of butter) Khrushchev was
partially successful where Goldberg and Heller
had failed.
The most influential figure opposing the Gold-
berg and Heller arguments was Secretary of the
Treasury Douglas Dillon. His appointment—at
a time when it was vital to establish "fiscal in-
tegrity"—w^as one of Kennedy's most adroit
moves. Dillon's name is much respected in the
financial community— and he is a Republican to
boot, plucked right out of the Eisenhower sub-
Cabinet.
The more moderate view appealed also to
Theodore Sorensen, Kennedy's remarkable young
Special Counsel, speech- writer, message-drafter,
and confidant. And— although he is not part of
the Administration team— Federal Reserve Board
Chairman William McChesney Martin also ex-
erted a restraining influence during a regular
series of White House meetings with the Presi-
dent and officials of the Treasury, Economic
Council, and the Budget Bureau.
For Chairman Heller, the results of the ac-
celerated military and space program were dis-
appointing except for one small victory: In the
"re-State of the Union" message on May 26, the
President stressed thai the "full financial in-
fluence" oi the government had to be exerted
to maintain easy money. If Heller (who is fond
BY HOBART ROWEN
29
of calling himself a "pragmatic" liberal*) had his
way, the government would not only follow
an easy-money policy, but would use its powers
in all directions to influence economic growth,
which, he says, "is both an end in itself and an
instrumentality, both the pot of gold and the
rainbow." Heller and other like-minded advisers
fake some measure of comfort from the Presi-
dent's midyear statement that a 4.5 per cent
growth rate "is well within our capability." This,
however, was more in the nature of a propa-
ganda retort to Khrushchev's boasting than a
statement of economic policy.
\\'hat are the sources of growth? Heller em-
phasizes investment in what are called "human
resources"— education and physical and mental
liealth. He attaches great importance to the re-
cent evidence that only about half of the nation's
vastly expanded output since 1900 can be traced
to better factories and machines. The other half
is the result of education— that is, more skilled
labor, technological gains, and mastery of the
economics of large-scale production. "We would
do well," says Heller, "to broaden our concept of
social 'capital' beyond bricks and mortar."
Heller is a Midwestern intellectual who grew
up in Milwaukee and was educated at Oberlin
and Wisconsin. He agrees with John Kenneth
Galbraith that "much of our affluence is being
Frittered away in indulgences, luxuries, and
frivolities." But he disputes Galbraith's major
thesis that the United States is "saturated" with
production, and needs only to divide the eco-
nomic pie more sensibly. Heller puts a greater
value on high production and employment, and
on the private sector of the economy, than does
Galbraith. Heller has a sophisticated grasp of
the facts of life in Washington. (He served four
years in the Treasury during M^orld War II.) He
knew from the start that not all of his advice
would always be taken and is well aware that it
is one thing for the academic purist to state a
theory or a goal, and another to get a program
through Congress.
An economist who knows this distinction
* In Washington jargon, a "pragmatic" liberal is
pretty much the same as a "responsible" liberal,
which is Sorensen's favorite description of Kennedy.
During the campaign, Sorensen took pains to dis-
tinguish between "responsible" liberals like Kennedy,
and others like Leon Keyserling (President Truman's
second Economic Council Chairman). Sorensen, who
did much of the scouting for economists whose brains
could be picked by Kennedy, regards Keyserling as a
"spender." This is somewhat unfair to Keyserling,
who did much of the trail-blazing on the need for
faster economic growth.
would naturally appeal to Kennedy, who is a
politician above all else. The two met for the
first time last October— during the campaign-
when Senator Hubert Humphrey introduced
them in a Minneapolis hotel room. As he dressed
for a speech, Kennedy cross-examined Heller
and liked his answers. When Samuelson later
made it clear that he wouldn't leave his MIT
teaching job, Kennedy called Heller to George-
town and offered him the Council post.
He promised Heller that he would revitalize
the Council and that he would let him nominate
his own associates.* The Heller-Tobin-Gordon
team is generally rated the best assembled since
the agency was created by the 1946 Employment
Act. All have direct access to Kennedy, and all
have made painstakingly long appearances on
Capitol Hill to explain the President's economic
strategy.
Kennedy at the outset told Heller that he was
to develop, not short-range tactics, but a broad
economic program, "in terms appropriate to the
optimum development of the human and natural
resources of this country." Under this charter,
Heller has tried to make the council a sort of
"catalytic agency" which draws on the talents of
other government departments and also prods
them regularly. In building his empire, Heller
relies on his own drive and ability and that of
his staff and a close rapport with Kennedy. His
influence is not diluted by a personal White
House economic aide (such as Dr. Gabriel Hauge
in the Eisenhower Administration).
"why?" or "why not?"
BU T Heller's Council is not the only ad-
visory mechanism in the Kennedy Adminis-
tration. The President also seeks economic
guidance from the Treasury, the Bureau of the
Budget, the Federal Reserve System, and the
"Kitchen Cabinet" headed by Sorensen. Com-
merce Secretary Luther H. Hodges is consulted
on specific problems such as tariffs and textile
quotas.
The Bureau of the Budget is directed by David
Bell, an economist who had been teaching at
Harvard's Littauer School. He took on the job
* Under Eisenhower's two Council Chairmen, .Ar-
thur Burns and Raymond Saulnicr, the Council was
largely a one-man operation. It struggled along on
a very small budget, which is scheduled to be increased.
Moreover, the Council came in for sharp criticism
toward the end of the Eisenhower era when Saulnier,
during the campaign, persistently refused to recog-
nize the existence of the recession.
30
KENNEDY'S ECONOMISTS
ot Budget Director with Kennedy's assurance
that the Bureau would be restored to the emi-
nence it enjoyed during the Roosevelt-Truman
era (when Bell had a staff job in the Bureau).
This, in fact, has happened. Eisenhower's Bud-
get Director was no more than an adviser to
Sherman Adams. But Bell is truly an adviser to
the President.* Bell sees himself as a participant
in shaping programs, rather than as a glorified
accountant who tries to balance the government's
books. The Bureau of the Budget is not, how-
ever, in the business of originating policy. Bell's
role therefore is that of a consultant who carries
out the orders of the President, once decisions
are made. In ainlost a literal sense, he is an
extension of the President. Where Heller or
Goldberg might publicly urge Kennedy onward
and upward, Bell could not and does not.
Within the Budget Bureau, there is a new out-
look on life. Bell has told his staff that concern
with costs doesn't mean that all energy should be
devoted to "exterminating waste." Instead he
wants the Bureau to be concerned with the suc-
cessful development of Kennedy's program.
Maurice Stans, Eisenhower's last Budget Direc-
tor, had the single word "Why?" framed in his
office. Bell's attitude is "Why Not?" A calm,
strong personality, Bell meets Kennedy's rigorous
intellectual standards, and his influence, like
Heller's, is on the liberal side. By an accident of
bureaucratic geography, the like-minded Eco-
nomic Council and the Budget Bureau are both
housed in an office building just across the street
from the White House.
BRAINS IN THE TREASURY
AVERY different kind of influence flows
from the ancient edifice flanking the White
House grounds to the east. This is the United
States Treasury, presided over by the chief Re-
publican warrior on the New Frontier, Douglas
Dillon. Debonair, a keen student of politics,
anxious to carve out his own niche, Dillon has
marched exactly in step with Kennedy. Although
more conservative than some of the President's
advisers, he has confounded those w'- feared he
would throw a Republican roadblock across key
Democratic programs, especially pet Democratic
monetary ideas. By any impartial standard, Dil-
lon must be ranked as one of our best Treasury
* Professor Richard Ncustadt o{ Cc)luinl)ia, author
f)l Presidential Pozoer, which is a sort ol liililc of
Kennedy's. aj:(rces with this asse-.snicnt. Until leaving
for a year's sabbatical at Oxford, Neustach acted as a
part-time consultant to Bell in tlie I'.ud^ei liureau.
Secretaries. As manager of the huge national
debt, he has moved with precision, skill, and
imagination (with the aid, of course, of a first-
rate group of technicians, notably Under Secre-
tary for Monetary Affairs, Robert V. Roosa*).
It is true that Dillon played a leading role in
beating back Heller's and Samuelson's anti-reces-
sion, temporary-tax-cut idea. BiU he has also
done much to develop and then defend the
Administration's 1961 tax-reform program. On
tax matters he has accepted most of the ideas of
another Kennedy Harvard expert, Assistant
Secretary Stanley S. Surrey. Surrey had confirma-
tion troubles on Capitol Hill because of his well-
known enthusiasm for plugging tax loopholes.
But he's hard at work on an even broader tax-
reform bill for next year. If any of his theories
are sacrificed to political necessity, the blame
will if^re properly fall on the Lyndon Johnson-
Sam Rayburil /l^is of the Democratic party than
on the Republican Se(!iC:ary of the Treasury.
On the touchy problem o^ fntei^st rates, Dil-
lon has so far gone along with Heller. TJjis is
noteworthy because Democrats and Republicans
are historicallv divided bv the Democrats' insist-
ence on the virtues of easy money for the lubrica-
tion of the business machine and the GOP bias in
favor of light money as a device to control in-
flation. Dillon Avas an investment banker as re-
cently as 1953 (when he left Dillon, Read &: Co.
to become Ambassador to France). Eventually
he may cross swords with Heller on credit policy.
But so far he has supported his Democratic
colleagues, who keep an eagle eye on the Federal
Reserve, fearful that Mr. Martin's central bank
will cut short the recovery (as it did in 1959) by
turning the credit screws too tight too soon.
At a press conference in April. Dillon showed
some concern: "There should be no worry that
this recovery is going to get out of hand. We
aren't looking forward to any very tremendous
budgetary deficit such as we had in 1959. There-
fore, we think a monetary policy . . . promoting
ease should continue for quite some time in the
future. In fact, we don't foresee yet the time at
which that woidd have to be changed. . . . Our
main point is that we look forward— and I think
the country can look forward— to a considerable
* When Sanuielson recommended Roosa to Ken-
nedy, he absent-mindedly said: "Of course, he's only
forty-two." To which J. F. K. responded: "Let's not
knock that age!" Roosa, who had been Vice President
of the New York Federal Reserve System, is con-
sidered the foremost authority on the operation of
the securities market. His name is often mentioned
as a successor to Martin as Chairman of the Federal
Reserve System.
BY HOBART ROWEN
31
period of monetary ease now, even though busi-
ness conditions seem to be better. . . ."
But what stunned some of his old Wall Street
friends was Dillon's declaration that a modest
federal deficit was prudent and necessary to help
lift the country out of recession. This was too
much for the Wall Street Joiirnal, and it took
a whole editorial to say so. During the lengthy
White House conferences on how to meet the
Berlin crisis, Dillon at one time favored raising
taxes to cover part of the increased cost for troops
and armaments. But Heller, supported by Sam-
uelson, argued against it, and in the end Dillon
came around to their view.
Thus, Dillon may be distinguished from his
more liberal colleagues only in degree, not in
kind. He took an active hand in the Administra-
tion effort to push down home-mortgage rates,
and he has supported all of Kennedy's legislative
proposals. True, he has been more optimistic
than others about recovery. But so has the Secre-
tary of Commerce, Luther Hodges. Dillon has
opposed a tax cut as a counter-cyclical device and
wondered whether Congress would accept some
of the more ambitious spending programs. But so
have Ted Sorensen and Kennedy's Congressional
leaders.
The Dillon influence at the White House has
grown steadily. There is a close relationship be-
tween the President and the Cabinet officer, two
men of enormous personal wealth. That Dillon
was able to switch loyalties from Eisenhower to
Kennedy so readily says something for his flexi-
bility. It also supplies a basic clue to Kennedy's
closely held views. "Mr. Dillon would not have
accepted this position if he had not been in
agreement, in general agreement, with me," Ken-
nedy said in Palm Beach, "and I would not have
asked him to accept the position if I had not
been in general agreement with him."
Dillon put it much the same way to me during
a conversation in his office: "When you talk
about fiscal soundness," he said, "I don't think
there's much difference between this Administra-
tion and the last one. Certainly there's not as
much difference between the two of them as
each makes out."
Some weeks ago, Dillon casually announced
that he was setting up a consulting board of
thirty economists and professors to meet periodi-
cally with high Treasury officials. In charge of
the group— and responsible for picking them— is
Dr. Seymour Harris of Harvard, an outstanding
liberal economist. This threatens an overlap
Avith the Council of Economic Advisers, and
Heller is ever so slightly miffed. But Dillon
wants access to "new ideas" to help solve the
problems confronting the Treasury, which is cer-
tainly a laudable motive. He is anxious, it seems,
to expose himself to the workings of the academic
mind, as well as to the clink-clink of the banking
fraternity's brains. The liberal persuasion of the
Harris group is also a badge that Dillon can dis-
play to doubting Democrats on Capitol Hill. It's
all quite a change from the days when Treasury
Secretary George Humphrey, strong man of the
first Eisenhower Cabinet, told a visitor that
Arthur F. Burns, then Eisenhower's chief econ-
omist, "had never met a payroll."
Of course, Treasury Secretaries before Dillon
have had outside economic consultants. But
Avhen Harris and his confreres trooped into the
Treasury for a two-day meeting, Dillon did not
make a pro-forma appearance, then disappear.
He stayed for hours on end, soaking up informa-
tion, cross-examining even for minutiae.
DILUTED IDEALISM
IT WILL not take very long to find out
whether Mr. Kennedy was wise in following
the Dillon rather than the Heller lead or
whether— as the Joint Committee and others have
warned— he should have called for a more mas-
sive effort. Heller and his fellow Council mem-
bers have told the President that in order to get
full recovery— which they define as unemploy-
ment reduced to 4 per cent— we will have to
spend more money, run a bigger deficit, keep
interest rates low, and cut taxes. One reason he
his rejected this advice is his fear of a big deficit.
But another influence has also made itself felt-
that of William McChesney Martin. The Chair-
man of the Federal Reserve Board insists that
interest rates can be pushed just so far, and that
the level of spending needed to cut deep into
unemployment will bring on a riotous inflation.
The Federal Reserve System has a mystique all
its own. From its marble headquarters on Con-
stitution Avenue it conveys a sense of knowing
all, and Martin himself has long been a revered
symbol of integrity as unassailable as the gold
standard or J. Edgar Hoover. Views from such
an authority are not lightly brushed aside and
Kennedy has weighed them seriously in planning
his fiscal policy for the coming year. Indeed, he
vetoed a proposal to appoint Representative
Reuss to a Reserve Board vacancy, instead named
another Democrat— George Mitchell of Chicago—
who would be considered by Martin to be less
doctrinaire.
What, then, is the prospect? The Council, in
32
KENNEDY'S ECONOMISTS
my view, reached a high point of service and in-
fluence when it convinced the President that
raising taxes, as part of the Berlin crisis program,
would be bad economics; it would slow down
growth and recovery. But Mr. Kennedy
promised, at the same time, that next year's
budget would be "strictly in balance." This will
be satisfactory only if unemployment has been
cut sharply, and if the balance is not achieved by
eliminating key social programs. The aid-to-
education program, for example, is already con-
sidered the first casualty of the preparedness
build-up. And surely this nation ought not have
a balanced budget at the expense of heavy un-
employment.
It is argued in some quarters that we will
simply have to get used to larger numbers of
unemployed. This is a defeatist point of view.
It is dangerous and must be challenged. (It is
worth noting that economists used to talk of
3 per cent unemployed as the tolerable, expect-
able rate in a "fully" employed society, but the
figure has now been moved up to 4 per cent.)
As Kennedy said in his message to Congress last
May:
"Large-scale unemployment during a recession
is bad enough. Large-scale unemployment dur-
ing recovery is intolerable to a free economy. It
is a major social evil. It is a source of national
weakness."
There is always the chance, of course, that
Heller and the expansionists have painted too
bleak a picture. Arthur Burns believes they
have and predicts a rapid recovery to full em-
ployment soon after mid- 1962. But even if true,
this would not mean that the nation could stop
striving for better education, housing, health,
and all else Heller defines as "social" capital. The
next "round" for critical decisions in this area
will come toward the end of this year, as
Kennedy develops his first full Budget and Eco-
nomic Messages.
If there is little prospect for full employment,
or if legitimate civilian programs are shimted
aside, liberal Democrats, educators, and others
who believe in an expanded economy will have
to start fighting in earnest. It's time now, how-
ever, for economists to give economic advice,
unmoderated by calculated political consitlcra-
tions. The political strategy can be left to
the politicians— there are plenty of good ones in
Washington. In the first year of this Administra-
tion too much obeisance has been paid to politi-
cal feasibility. If economists do not argue
cogently and forcefully for their programs, the
goals they want to achieve may never become
politically feasibly.
As for Mr. Kennedy himself, he has shown that
he has a conservative streak and is more "deficit
conscious" than was thought before. But he is
not an intractable person. (One of his closest
aides says: "Jack rarely buys an idea the first
time around." And Kennedy himself noted at a
press conference that, as a Senator in 1958, he
voted against a tax cut when it was brought up
as an anti-recession measure in March of that
year, but for it in June.) His liberal advisers
hope that he will want a place in the history
books more significant than being a better bud-
get balancer than Eisenhower. If so, he would
do well to recall the inspiring words of his
Inaugural Address. At least, "Let us begin."
A FAITH FOR TOUGH TIMES?
G
^ I V E N two countries with equal natural resources, one a dictatorship and the
other allowing individual liberty, the one allowing liberty is almost certain to
become superior to the other in war technique in no very long time. As we have
seen in Germany and Russia, freedom in scientific research is incompatible with
dictatorship. Germany might well have won the war if Hitler could have endured
Jewish physicists. Russia will have less grain than if Stalin had not insisted upon
the adoption of Lysenko's theories. It is highly probable that there will soon be,
in Russia, a similar governmental incursion into the domain of nuclear physics.
I do not doubt that, if there is no war during the next fifteen years, Russian
scientific war technique will, at the end of that time, be very markedly inferior
to that of the West, and that inferiority will be directly traceable to dictatorship.
I think, therefore, that, so long as powerful democracies exist, democracy will in
the long run be victorious. And on this basis I allow myself a moderate optimism
as to the future. Scientific dictatorshi[)s will j)erish through not being sufficiently
scientific— Bertrand Russell, The Impact of Scieyice, on Society, 1953.
Harper's Magazine, September 1961
On Both Your Houses
By SYLVIA WRIGHT
IU S E D to travel between the city place and
the country place by train, and I traveled
light. There are very few things in this world
that one needs badly enough to carry them with
one on the Shore Line Train to Boston: on that
railroad one must keep one's hands free and
one's powder dry. Often I traveled with only
my checkbook, my powder, and my powder puff
in a shoulder strap bag. Everything else I had
stayed put.
Then a station wagon entered my life, pro-
viding, between the two places, a connection (by
marriage). Things changed. Things that never
needed to travel before began to crowd into the
station wagon. Every weekend, it is full of them.
Is it possible that a station wagon causes you
to eat more? When I first acquired a washing
machine, I promulgated the washing-machine
principle, according to which possessing it makes
you wash things which previously did not need
to be washed. Acquiring a station wagon makes
you transport things that previously did not need
to be transported. Some are edible, which means
you cook things which previously, etc., and eat
things, etc. Metrecal may be an end product of
station wagons.
There are the enormous overflowing cartons
from the supermarket, whose symbol is a long
white ribbon of figures ending at $24.16, with a
block of 241 green stamps. But these appear to
come with the station wagon and to represent
an accessory, like the car radio. (Subclause One
of the washing-machine or station-wagon prin-
ciple says: Any opportunity presented by the
appliance to make economies by larger-scale
operation must be taken advantage of, or adjust-
ment to the appliance will be unsatisfactory.)
What worries me is a further proliferation of
provender, which represents not simple increase,
but also increase in complexity of operation.
I have a freezer, too, or rather two refrigerators
with freezers, and according to the station-wagon
or freezer principle, acquiring a freezer means
that you cook many things that previously did
34
ON BOTH YOUR HOUSES
not need to be preserved. There used to be two
separate freezers in two separate places, sixty-odd
miles apart. Now they flow together into one
larder, one treasure trove of comestible possibili-
ties. Because of the station wagon, my mind
automatically picks up the plastic container in
the country place's freezer labeled (with all these
appliances to keep busy, I forget what things
are) "left-over mussel juice" and combines it
with another container from the city freezer,
which contains left-over scalloped flounder, and
a very good soup it was, though I can't remem-
ber now exactly where we ate it. The point is,
one of them made a trip. (Depending on the
season, the trip is just long enough to partly
unfreeze soup, which can be inconvenient, so we
have acquired another appliance, a shapeless,
red, zipper bag, made of layers of stuff which
crackle, to keep frozen things frozen in. Although
the bag is named "Thermokeep Product," it
constitutes, in a sense, a third freezer. Subclause
Two of the freezer or proliferation principle
states that possessing two similar appliances in
different places necessitates the purchase of a
third object, or subappliance, to bridge the gap.)
At one time, I had quite different sets of ice-
box dishes in the city and the country places,
which gave a certain delightful regional in-
dividuality to each kitchen, and I could establish
the provenance of any concoction by whether it
was in a white plastic icebox dish with a blue
cover, or a glass icebox dish with a glass cover in-
cised with abstracted tomatoes. But now I begin to
feel the effects of the proliferation principle: ice-
box dishes scuttle back and forth almost without
my planning it, and have become all mixed up,
including a number of old peanut-butter jars.
Each place has a similar motley collection, which
shows how conformity creeps around these
1^1 i red States.
BE F O R E we acquired the station wagon, it
would never have occurred to me to start
making vitello tonnato in one place and to
finish it in another. This is a matter of marinat-
ing, which takes time. Before, we never ate
marinated things in the country, because a week-
end is not long enough. We had simple country
fare, like mussels and roast ham, in the country,
and marinadcrie in the city, which gave a re-
gional culinary character to each place. Now we
can eat vitello tonnato in any place, even transit.
This, of course, makes for a fuller life, which one
knows is desirable, but like all fuller lives and
many desirable things, it increases complications.
There are several different ways of making
vitello tonnato, but roughly it involves having a
piece of leg of veal cook and sit for a while in a
delicious mixture of tuna fish, anchovies, capers—
and white wine, if you wish. (I got that "if you
wish" from the women's magazines, who— I mean
which— don't want readers to get mad at them
for encouraging alcoholism.) I establish the
vitello in a mixture in the city. Then I wonder
if I have another can of tuna fish and a bottle
of capers, which I will need to add to the sauce
later. I must pack the vitello in its casserole in
something, so that it will not distribute itself all
over the back of the station wagon, so I find a
box which the casserole just fits, and on top I
put a can of tuna fish and my city bottle of ca-
pers, deciding not to take chances.
You have guessed what happens. When I ar-
rive in the country place, I find that I have a city
bottle of capers, a country bottle of capers, and
five cans of tuna fish, so at the end of the week-
end, I return with the box (which I need in the
city because I ke^p left-over knitting wool in it),
and, in the box, a bottle of capers and two cans
of tuna fish, in order to maintain parity in tuna
fish.
And some empty club-soda bottles originally
bought in the city of a brand which the country
place won't give me a deposit back on. This, in
modern American life, is one of those areas
where conformity is at a standstill— not a creep
out of it— and it is a nuisance to all of us. An-
other example is liquor being cheaper in the
state of the city place than in the state of the
country place. I have said that transporting
things back and forth produces conformity. Lack
of conformity seems to produce transport. This
is so fascinating a parallel that I feel it must
prove something else equally interesting, but I
cannot decide what— perhaps that the economy
is full of safeguards.
The osmosis of the two freezers has another
effect. In my mind's eye, I see, in the country
freezer, a container of frozen Swedish meat balls,
and two loaves of half-baked bread. A meal!
Practically a readidinner! There they are side by
side. But when I arrive, I discover that while the
Swedish meat balls are there all right, the half-
baked bread is in the city freezer, miles away.
Sylvia Wright is the author of "Get Away
from Me with Those Christmas Gifts" — a book con-
taining many of her articles on problems of domes-
tic economy, of art, advertising, and manners. She
lives in New Haven, where her husband is an archi-
tect, and has been scuttling back and forth to Fishers
Island since her childhood.
BY SYLVIA WRIGHT
35
What it IS next to is the split pea soup, which
was made from the country ham bone.
If I were Mrs. Exeter, Mrs. More-Taste-Than-
Money, or B.F.'s wife, or even one of those young
men who know the value of wool, I would be
able to cope with this problem in a gay elegant
way, like making an exact list of what is in each
freezer and editing the list on each arrival and
departure. The list is certainly indicated, and
not to make it is to resist the principle of pro-
liferation and purchase, which might be restated
as follows: The value of an appliance is deter-
mined by the ratio between the things it can
make you do that you never thought you needed
to do before, and the things you never needed to
do before (another e.g., blender— hollandaise).
And, now that I think of it, it would be fun to
have a special little book, dark-blue leather with
a gold-stained top, thin, elegant, and looking as
if it knew the value of wool, in which to keep all
sorts of lists of what is here and what is there. In
the country, I happen to have ;i little gold pencil
which I found in a desk, and which Avould justify
the purchase of such*a notebook. So I will now
make a note to remember to buy the blue note-
book, and also to get the gold pencil next time
I go to the country. When I get the notebook, I
can transfer the second note to it.
List number one will be objects one has two of,
because of Christmas, inheritance, or marriage.
Who needs two chess sets, two long-handled thin
brushes for cleaning the spouts of tea pots, two
stamp boxes, and two copies of Stendhal On
Love, one in English and one in French, in one
place? These certainly should be redistributed.
There is only one difficult decision: which place
gets French? Is one more likely to read French
in the city or the country? Should this be de-
cided on the basis of which place does not get the
Sunday New York Times? It would be most
artistic to keep the French books together, and
this will involve some carting back and forth, for
they are scattered. (Why did my grandfather
keep a bound volume of La Vie Parisienne in
the coimtry?) But even nicer would be to re-
organize the libraries completely and have a
distinctly city and a distinctly country library.
La Vie Parisienne is a city book. Love in a Cold
Climate is a summer-place book. So obviously is
Antie Hay. But Those Barren Leaves should be
in the city, and this means separating Huxley.
But why not separate Huxley? In a way, it com-
bats conformity.
By now you should be picturing me in the
station wagon with books, vitcUo tonnato in a
casserole in a box, left-over scalloped fish, bottles,
a dark-blue notebook, a chess set, a long-handled
the other sorts of things which are also sur-
thin brush, a stamp box, and Stendhal's De
i'Anioiir (since I have decided French is for
traveling). To fill you in further, I will outline
rounding me. There are a couple of blankets,
because one of the things I don't have two of is
a washing machine. The machine is in the
country, but it has also imposed its nasty im-
maculate standards on my city life as well, so I
take things to it for treatment. There is a large
yellow vase, which looks awful with lilacs in it,
but which I may be able to use for goldenrod.
There are some coat hangers, which are still
perfectly good, but the velvet covering has come
off one side, and one can always use more coat
hangers in the country. There are two cushions,
which I shall sit in a good sunny place and make
new covers for, so I am also taking the sewing
machine, since I don't have two sewing machines
either. There is a paper shopping bag, since I
have two others in the city, and I am going to
need it on the way back to carry the country
meat grinder in. The city meat grinder is very
small and hard to operate, but it is only in the
city that I can find pork liver and pork fat for
a pate. I am also taking the large Chemex coffee-
pot and its box of filter papers, and the electric
frying pan, since we are having some guests (who
I hope will help put things away), and both of
these come in handy with guests. And one or
two more emptv peanut-butter jars, because some-
how I don't seem to have as many icebox dishes
as I used to, and these jars also come in handy
for nails. And the round drum table, which
looks a^vful in the city, and I may be able to find
36
ON BOTH YOUR HOUSES
a place for in the country. And the paint roller,
with its slanting tray. The paint roller belongs to
the country place; I had a little painting to do in
the city; and I am now returning it. One is rich
enough, I suppose, to have two paint rollers, but
that would commit one to be painting in two
places which is too much for anyone, even some-
one with more money than taste.
TH E trip back and forth is no longer a trip.
It is a safari. The two places have also
changed. They are becoming more alike, and the
back of the station wagon is getting like both of
them. Formerly they were separate, with distinct
identities. Now they jostle each other and jockey
for position. What is more, one of them is in
danger of becoming the dump, or second-class,
house. The drum table is a perfectly good table,
and the yellow vase a perfectly good vase, but
somehow taking them outdoors and looking at
them while they sit in bright sun beside the open
maw of the station wagon makes them look tired,
and as if they didn't belong anywhere, except to
the Goodwill Industries. They will never be
quite the same, even inside, again. With con-
formity, one place conforms more than the other,
and begins to creep downhill, which is like
George Orwell's people who are equal, but some
are more equal than others.
"What is wrong with all this is that it does not
belong in the space age. It seems inefficient and
dowdy to travel into the visionary and clean-cut
space age with a drum table, a yellow vase, and
peanut-butter jars. (Stendhal and the dark-blue
notebook seem okay, even chic.)
How, I asked myself, could I space-age grace-
fully? How could 1 make these safaris so that
they felt modern and purposeful? One day, I
decided to see how I ought to feel. Driving
along with my load, I began imagining myself
in a capsule headed for another planet. I drove
along for a while dodging various sorts of rays,
and then looked around. How cool and clean!
How deathly quiet! Then I noticed something
further.
I was surrounded by things: things measuring,
lighting, blipping; things to listen to and talk
into; things producing oxygen and unproducing
germs; things doing something to weightlessness,
things doing something to me, things growing
plankton, and I don't know what else, including
space shoes to wear on arrival.
Thus I realized that I had been taking an
overromantic view of the space age. It may be
more visionary than peanut-butter jars, but it is
also the original— or is it the final?— age of clut-
ter. In the space age, the principle of prolifera-
tion and purchase comes to its full realization.
Here are not merely things, but things doing
things. By comparison my weekend load is triv-
ial—a primitive pioneering* little lot, compara-
ble to a bow and arrow, doing nothing but
marinating quietly. Yet, in their quaintly co-
ordinated clutter, my things are a hint, an
adumbration of what is to come. Unwittingly
all along I have been driving into the future.
Unwittingly, I have been getting ready for cap-
side cruises. Via vitello tonnato, I am working
slowly up to that time when I will be growing
my own plankton, and I am making a note in
my dark-blue notebook to remember the capers,
and the white wine, if it (plankton) wishes.
Harper's Magazine, September 1961
JANE JACOBS
VIOLENCE IN
THE CITY STREETS
How Our ^Housing Experts'' Unwittingly Encourage Crime
The people who plan, build, and police our
cities are using a set of assumptions that are en-
tirely wrong — with unpleasant results for all of us.
So Mrs. Jacobs argues in the folloiving article,
adapted from her neiv book to be published next
month by Random House. In the book she develops
her case in detail, and goes on to present her own
comprehensive approach to the problems of city life.
TO BUILD city districts that are custom-
made for easy crime is idiotic. Yet that
is what we do. Today barbarism has taken over
many city streets— or people fear it has, which
comes to much the same thing in the end.
"I live in a lovely quiet residential area," says
a friend of mine who is hunting for another place
to live. "The only disturbing sound at night
is the occasional scream of someone being
mugged."
It does not take many incidents of violence
to make people fear the streets. And as they
fear them, they use them less, which makes the
streets still more unsafe.
This problem is not limited to the older parts
of cities. Sidewalk and doorstep insecurity are
as serious in cities that have made conscientious
efforts to rebuild as they are in those cities that
have lagged. Nor is it illuminating to tag minor-
ity groups, or the poor, or the outcast, with
responsibility for city danger. Some of the
safest— as well as some of the most dangerous-
sidewalks in New York, for example, are those
along which poor people or minority groups
live. And this is true elsewhere.
Deep and complicated social ills underlie de-
linquency and crime— in suburbs and towns as
well as great cities. But if we are to maintain
a city society that can diagnose and keep abreast
of these profoundly difficult problems, the start-
ing point must be to strengthen the workable
forces that now exist for maintaining urban
safety and civilization. In fact we do precisely
the opposite.
First, we must understand that the public
peace— the sidewalk and street peace— of cities
is not kept primarily by the police, necessary
though they are. It is kept primarily by an
intricate, almost unconscious, network of volun-
tary controls and standards among the people
themselves. In some city areas— notably older
public-housing projects and streets with very
high population turnover— the keeping of public
sidewalk law and order is left almost entirely
to the police and special guards. Such places
are jungles.
Nor can the problem be solved by spreading
people out more thinly, trading the characteris-
tics of cities for the characteristics of suburbs.
If this were possible, then Los Angeles should
be in good shape because superficially it is
almost all suburban. It has virtually no dis-
tricts compact enough to qualify as dense city.
Yet Los Angeles' crime figures are flabbergast-
ing. Among the seventeen standard metropoli-
tan areas with populations over a million, Los
Angeles stands pre-eminent in crime, especially
the crimes associated with personal attack, which
make people fear the streets. (Los Angeles, for
example, has a forcible rape rate more than twice
as high as either of the next two cities, which
happen to be St. Louis and Philadelphia, three
38
VIOLENCE IN THE CITY STREETS
times as high as the rate for Chicago, and more
than four times the rate for New York.)
The reasons for Los Angeles' high crime rates
are complex, and at least in part obscure. But
of this we can be sure: thinning out a city does
not insure safety from crime and fear of crime.
This is demonstrable too in cities where pseudo-
suburbs or superannuated suburbs are ideally
suited to rape, muggings, beatings, holdups, and
the like. The all-important question is: How
much easy opportunity does any city street offer
to crime? It may be that there is some absolute
amount of crime in a given city, which will
find an outlet somehow (I do not believe this).
In any case, different kinds of city streets gamer
radically different shares of barbarism.
NORTH END VS. ROXBURY
SO M E city streets afford no such oppor-
tunity. The streets of the North End of
Boston are outstanding examples. City planners
officially consider this area a "slum" but the
streets are probably as safe as any place on
earth. Although most of the North End's resi-
dents are Italian or of Italian descent, the dis-
trict's streets are heavily and constantly used
also by people of every race and background.
Some of the strangers from outside work in or
close to the district; some come to shop and
stroll; many make a point of cashing their pay-
checks in North End stores and immediately
making their big weekly purchases in streets
where they know they will not be parted from
their money between the getting and the
spending.
Frank Havey, director of the North End
Union, the local settlement house, says, "In
twenty-eight years I have never heard of a
single case of rape, mugging, molestation of a
child, or other street crime of that sort in the
district. And if there had been any, I would
have heard of it even if it did not reach the
papers." Half-a-dozen times or so in the past
three decades, says Havey, would-be molesters
have made a try toward luring a child or, late
at night, attacking a woman. In every such
case the try was thwarted by passers-by, by kibitz-
ers from windows, or shopkeepers.
Meantime, in the Elm Hill Avenue section of
Roxbury, a part of inner Boston that is suburban
in superficial character, prudent people stay off
the streets at night because of the ever-present
possibility of street assaults with no kibitzers to
protect the victims. F"or this and other related
reasons-dispiritedness and dullness-most of
Roxbury has run down. It has become a place
to leave.
Roxbury's disabilities, and especially its Great
Blight of Dullness, are all too common in other
cities too. But differences like these in public
safety within the same city are worth noting.
The once fine Elm Hill Avenue section's basic
troubles are not due to a criminal or a dis-
criminated-against or a poverty-stricken popula-
tion. Its troubles are due to the fundamental
fact that it is physically unsuited to function
with vitality as a city district, and so cannot
function safely.
Even within supposedly similar parts of sup-
posedly similar places, drastic differences in
public safety exist. For example, at Washington
Houses, a public-housing project in New York,
a tenants' group put up three Christmas trees
in mid-December 1958. The biggest tree— a huge
one— went into the project's inner "street," a
landscaped central mall. Two smaller trees
were placed at the outer corners of the project
where it abuts a busy avenue and lively cross
streets. The first night, the large tree and all
its trimmings were stolen. The two smaller
ones remained intact, lights, ornaments, and all,
until they were taken down at New Year's. The
inner mall is theoretically the most safe and
sheltered place in the project. But, says a social
worker who has been helping the tenants' group,
"People are no safer in that mall than the
Christmas tree. On the other hand, the place
where the other trees were safe, where the proj-
ect is just one corner out of four, happens to be
safe for people."
Everyone knows that a well-used city street
is apt to be safe. A deserted one is apt to be
unsafe. But how does this work, really? And
what makes a city street well used or shunned?
Why is the inner sidewalk mall in Washington
Houses— which is supposed to be an attraction-
shunned when the sidewalks of the old city just
to its west are not? What about streets that
are busy part of the time and then empty
abruptly? A city street equipped to make a
safety asset out of the presence of strangers, as
successful city neighborhoods always do, must
have three main qualities:
Jane Jacobs, a resident of Greenwich Village
who was horn in Scranton, Pennsylvania, has
written about cities for many publications and is
an associate editor of "Architectural Forum." She
is married to an architect and has three children.
Her new book, from which this article is adapted,
is called "Life and Death of Great American Cities."
BY JANE JACOBS
39
First, there must be a clear demarcation be-
tween public and private spaces. They cannot
ooze into each other as they do typically in hous-
ing projects where streets, walks, and play areas
may seem at first glance to be open to the public
but in effect are special preserves. (The fate of
Washington Houses' large Christmas tree is a
classic example of what happens when the dis-
tinction between public and private space is
bhuTcd, and the area which should be under
public surveillance has no clear practicable
limits.)
Second, there must be eyes upon the street,
eyes belonging to what we might call its natural
proprietors. To insure the safety of both resi-
dents and strangers, the buildings on a street
must be oriented to it. They cannot turn their
backs or blank sides on it and leave it blind.
And third, the sidewalk must have users on
it fairly continuously, both to add more effective
eyes and to induce plenty of people in buildings
along the street to watch the sidewalks. Nobody
enjoys sitting on a stoop or looking out a win-
dow at an empty street. But large numbers of
people entertain themselves, off and on, by
watching street activity.
In settlements smaller than cities, public be-
havior (if not crime) is controlled to some ex-
tent by a web of reputation, gossip, approval,
disapproval, and sanctions. All of these are
powerful if people know each other and word
travels. But a city's streets must control not only
the behavior of city people but also of visitors
who want to have a big time away from the
gossip and sanctions at home. It is a wonder
cities have solved such a difficult problem at all.
And yet in many streets they do it magnificently.
The issue of unsafe streets cannot be evaded
by trying to make some other features of a lo-
cality safe instead— for example, interior court-
yards, or sheltered play spaces. The streets of a
city are where strangers come and go. The streets
must not only defend the city against predatory
strangers. They must also insure the safety of
the many peaceable strangers who pass through.
Moreover no normal person can spend his life
in some artificial haven, and this includes chil-
dren. Everyone must use the streets.
On the surface, we seem to have here some
simple aims: To try for streets where the public
space is unequivocally public and to see that
these public street spaces have eyes on them as
continually as possible.
But it is far from simple to accomplish these
things. You can't make people use streets with-
out reason. You can't make people watch
streets if they do not want to. The safety of
the street works best— and with least taint of
hostility or suspicion— where people are using
and enjoying the city streets voluntarily.
KEEPING PEOPLE ON WATCH
TH E basic requisite for such surveillance
is a substantial quantity of stores and
other public places sprinkled along the side-
walks; it is especially important that ]:)laces
frequented during the evening and night be
among them. Stores, bars, and restaurants— the
chief examples— abet sidewalk safety in different
and complex ways.
First, they give people concrete reasons for
using the sidewalks.
Second, they draw people along the side-
walks past places which have few attractions
in themselves; this influence does not carry
very far geographically, so there must be many
—and different— enterprises in a city district if
they are to give walkers reason for criss-crossing
paths and populating barren stretches on the
street.
Third, small businessmen and their employees
are typically strong proponents of peace and or-
der themselves; they hate broken windows, hold-
ups, and nervous customers. If present in suf-
ficient abundance, they are great street watchers
and sideAvalk guardians.
Fourth, the activity generated by people on
errands, or people aiming for food or drink, in
itself attracts more people to the street.
This last point seems incomprehensible to
city planners and architectural designers. They
operate on the premise that city people seek
emptiness, obvious order, and quiet. Nothing
could be less true. The love of people for watch-
ing activity and other people is evident in
cities everywhere. This trait reaches an almost
ludicrous extreme on upper Broadway in New
York, where the street is divided by a narrow,
central mall, right in the middle of traffic.
Benches have been placed at the cross-street
intersections of this long mall, and on any day
when the weather is even barely tolerable they
are filled with people watching the pedestrians,
the traffic, and each other.
Eventually Broadway reaches Columbia Uni-
versity and Barnard College, one to the right,
the other to the left. Here all is obvious order
and quiet. No more stores and the activity
they generate, almost no more pedestrians— and
no more watchers on the benches. I have tried
them and can see why. No place could be more
40
VIOLENCE IN THE CITY STREETS
boring. Even the students shun it. They do
their outdoor loitering, homework, and street
watching on the steps overlooking the busiest
campus crossing.
THE LADY AT THE WINDOW
IT I S just so elsewhere. A lively street always
has both its users and watchers. Last year
I was in the Lower East Side of Manhattan,
waiting for a bus on a street full of errand-goers,
children playing, and loiterers on the stoops.
In a minute or so a woman opened a third floor
tenement window, vigorously yoo-hooed at me,
and shouted down that "The bus doesn't run
here on Saturdays!" Then she directed me
around the corner. This woman was one of
thousands of New Yorkers who casually take
care of the streets. They notice strangers. They
observe everything going on. If they need to
take action, whether to direct a stranger or to
call the police, they do so. Such action usually
requires, to be sure, a certain self-assurance
about the actor's proprietorship of the street
and the support he will get if necessary, and this
raises special problems I will not deal with
here.* But the fundamental thing is the watch-
ing itself.
Not everyone in cities helps to take care of the
streets, and many a resident or worker is un-
aware of why his neighborhood is safe. Con-
sider, for example, a recent incident which oc-
curred on the street where I live.
My block is a small one, but it contains a
remarkable range of buildings, varying from
several vintages of tenements to three- or four-
story houses. Some of these have been converted
into low-rent flats with stores on the ground
floor; some, like ours, have been returned to
single-family use. Across the street are some
four-story brick tenements with stores below.
Half of them were converted twelve years ago
into small high-rent elevator apartments.
From my second-story window I happened to
see a suppressed struggle going on between a
man and a little girl. He seemed to be trying
to get her to go with him, by turns cajoling
her, and then acting nonchalant. The child
was making herself rigid against the wall.
I wondered whether I should intervene, but
then it became unnecessary. The wife of the
butcher emerged from their shop with a de-
• In htr bfK)k, Mrs. Jacf^ljs devotes much attention
to this question of the sense of responsibility
and common concern in city neighborhoods.
I HE liunoRS
termined look on her face. Joe Cornacchia came
out of his delicatessen and stood solidly to the
other side. Several heads poked out of the tene-
ment windows above; one was withdrawn
quickly, and its owner reappeared a moment
later in the doorway behind the man. Two men
from the bar next to the butcher shop came to
the doorway and waited. On my side of the
street, the locksmith, the fruit man, and the
laundry proprietor came out of their shops, and
other eyes peered from windows. That man did
not know it, but he was surrounded. Nobody
was going to allow a little girl to be dragged off,
even if nobody knew who she was. I am sorry—
for dramatic reasons— to have to report that the
little girl turned out to be the man's daughter.
Throughout this little drama, perhaps five
minutes in all, no eyes appeared in the windozvs
of the high-rent apartments. It was the only
building of which this was true. When we first
moved to our block, I used to hope that soon all
the old tenements would be rehabilitated in the
same way. I know better now, and am filled with
gloom by the recent news that such a transfor-
mation is scheduled for the rest of the block.
The high-rent tenants, most of whom are so
transient* we cannot even keep track of their
faces, have not the remotest idea of who takes
care of their street, or how. A city neighborhood
can absorb and protect a substantial number of
these birds of passage. But if and when they
become the neighborhood, the streets will grad-
ually grow less secure, and if things get bad
enough they will drift away to another neighbor-
hood which is mysteriously safer.
In some rich neighborhoods, where there is
little do-it-yourself surveillance, street watchers
are hired. The monotonous sidewalks of resi-
dential Park Avenue in New York, for example,
are surprisingly little used; their logical users
are populating instead the interesting sidewalks
of Lexington and Madison Avenues to the east
and west, filled with bars, stores, and restaurants.
A network of doormen and superintendents, of
delivery boys and nursemaids— a form of hired
neighborhood— keeps residential Park Avenue
supplied with eyes. At night, dog walkers safely
venture forth and supplement the doormen. But
this street is blank of built-in eyes, and devoid
of concrete reasons for using or watching it. If
its rents were to slip below the point where they
could support a plentiful hired neighborhood
* Some, according to the storekeepers, live on beans
and Ijrcad and spend their sojourn looking for a
pliKC to live where all their money will not go lor
rent.
BY JANE JACOBS
41
of doormen and elevator men, it would become
a woefully dangerous street.
Once a street has effective demarcation be-
t^veen private and public spaces and has a basic
supply of activity and eyes, it is equipped to
handle strangers, in fact the more the merrier.
Strangers can be a safety asset, particularly at
night. The street on which I live is fortunate
in having a locally supported bar, another
around the corner, and a famous one— the "White
Horse— that draws continuous troops of strangers.
(Dylan Thomas used to go there, and mentioned
it in his writing.) This bar, indeed, ^vorks two
distinct shifts. In the morning and early after-
noon it is a social gathering place for Irish
longshoremen and other craftsmen in tlie area,
as it always was. But beginning in midafter-
noon it changes to kind of a college bull session
combined \\ith a literary cocktail party, and this
continues until the early hours of the morning.
On a cold ^\•inter's night, \\'hen the doors of the
White Horse open, a solid wave of conversation
surges out— very warming. The comings and
goings from this bar do much to keep our street
reasonably populated until three in the morn-
ing, make it safe to come home to. The only
instance I knoAv of a beating in our street oc-
curred in the dead hours between the closing
of the bar and da^sn. (The beating was halted
by one of our neighbors who saw it from his
A\'indo^\-.)
I know a street uptown where a church youth
and community center, whh many night dances
and other activities, performs about the same
service as the ^Vhite Horse bar. Orthodox plan-
ning is much imbued with puritanical concep-
tions of how people should spend their free
time. But there is room in cities for many dif-
ferences in people's tastes, proclivities, and occu-
pations. And these differences are in fact needed.
Utopians and other compulsive managers of
other people's leisure openly prefer one kind
of legal enterprise over others— youth centers
and restaurants are "better" than bars and pool-
rooms. This kind of thinkine is worse than ir-
relevant for cities. It is harmful. The greater
and more plentiful the range of all legitimate
interests— in the strictly legal sense— that city
streets and their enterprises can satisfy, the bet-
ter for the streets and for the safety of the city.
42
VIOLENCE IN THE CITY STREETS
Bars, and indeed all commerce, have a bad
name in many city districts precisely because
they do draw strangers and the strangers do not
work out as an asset.
This is especially true in the dispirited gray
belts of great cities and in once-fashionable (or
at least once-solid) inner residential areas gone
into decline. Because these neighborhoods are
so dangerous, and the streets typically so dark,
it is commonly believed that their troubles with
strangers may result from insufficient street
lighting. Good lighting is important, but dark-
ness alone does not account for the gray areas'
deep, functional gickness, the Great Blight of
Dullness.
BLIND-EYED STREET
BRIGHT lights do give some reassurance
to people who need or want to go out.
Thus lights induce these people to contribute
their own eyes to the upkeep of the street. More-
over, as is obvious, good lighting makes the eyes
count for more because their range is greater.
Each additional pair of eyes, and every increase
in their range, is that much to the good. But
unless eyes are there, and unless in the brains
behind those eyes is the almost unconscious re-
assurance of general street support in uphold-
ing civilization, lights can do no good. Horri-
fying public crimes can, and do, occur in well-
lighted subway stations when no effective eyes
are present (although a few people may be).
They virtually never occur in darkened theatres
where many people and eyes are present.
To explain the troubling effect of strangers
on the streets of gray city areas, it is useful to
examine the peculiarities of another and fig-
urative kind of street— the corridors of high-
rising, public-housing projects which have be-
come standard all over America. The elevators
and corridors of these projects are, in a sense,
streets piled up in the sky to permit the ground
to become deserted parks like the mall at Wash-
ington Houses where the tree was stolen.
These interior parts of the building are not
only streets in the sense that they serve the com-
ings and goings of residents— few of whom may
know each other or recognize, necessarily, who
is a resident and who is not. They are streets
also in the sense of being accessible to the pub-
lic. They have been designed in an imitation of
upper-class standards for apartment living with-
out iij)}jcr-f lass cash for doormen and elevator
men. Anyone can go intf) these buildings, un-
questioned, and use the elevator and corridors.
These blind-eyed streets, although completely
accessible to public use, are closed to public view
and thus lack the checks and inhibitions exerted
by eye-policed city streets.
The New York Housing Authority some
years back experimented with corridors open to
public view in a Brooklyn project which I shall
call Blenheim Houses although that is not its
name. (I do not wish to add to its troubles by
advertising it.)
Because the buildings of Blenheim Houses
are sixteen stories high, the open corridors can-
not really be watched from the ground or from
other buildings. But their psychological open-
ness has had some effect. More importantly, the
corridors were well designed to induce surveil-
lance from within the buildings themselves.
They were equipped to serve as play space, and
as narrow porches, as well as passageways. This
all turned out to be so lively and interesting
that the tenants added still another use: picnic
grounds— this in spite of continual pleas and
threats from the management which did not
plan that the balcony corridors should serve as
picnic grounds. (One of the main tenets of plan-
ners is that the Plan should anticipate every-
thing and then permit no changes.) The tenants
are devoted to the balcony-corridors which are,
as a result, under intense surveillance. There
has been no problem of crime in these corridors
nor of vandalism either. Not even light bulbs
are stolen or broken.
Nonetheless, Blenheim Houses has a fearsome
problem of vandalism and scandalous behavior.
The lighted balconies which are, as the manager
puts it, "the brightest and most attractive scene
in sight," draw strangers, especially teen-agers,
from all over Brooklyn. But these strangers do
not halt at the visible corridors. They go into
other "streets" of the buildings, streets that lack
surveillance— the elevators and, more important
in this case, the fire stairs and their landings.
The housing police run up and down after the
malefactors— who behave barbarously and vi-
ciously in the blind-eyed, sixteen-story stairways
—and the malefactors elude them. It is easy to
run the elevators up to a high floor, jam the
doors so the elevators cannot be brought down,
and then play hell with a building and anyone
you can catch. So serious is the problem and
apparently so uncontrollable, that the advantage
of the safe corridors is all but canceled out— at
least in the harried manager's eyes.
What happens at Blenheim Houses is some-
what the same as in dull gray areas of cities.
Their pitifully few and thinly spaced patches
BY JANE JACOBS
43
of life are like the visible corridors at Blenheim
Houses. They do attract strangers. But the
relatively deserted, blind streets leading from
these places are like the fire stairs at Blenheim
Houses. They lack the kind of street life which
could equip them to handle strangers safely, and
the presence of strangers in them is thus an auto-
matic menace.
THE "extraneous" PEOPLE
TH E temptation in such cases is to blame
the balconies— or the commerce or bars that
serve as a magnet. A typical train of thought is
exemplified in the Hyde Park-Kenwood renewal
project now under way in Chicago. This piece
of gfay area adjoining the University of Chicago
contains many splendid houses and grounds, but
for thirty years it has been plagued with a
frightening street-crime problem, accompanied
in recent years by considerable physical decay.
The "cause" of Hyde Park-Kenwood's decline
has been brilliantly identified, by the city
planners, as the presence of "blight." By this
they mean that too many of the college professors
and other middle-class families steadily deserted
this dull and dangerous area and their places
were often, quite naturally, taken by those with
little economic or social choice among living
places.
What does the Hyde Park-Kenwood plan do?
It designates and removes these chunks of blight
and replaces them with housing projects de-
signed, as usual, to minimize use of the streets.
The plan also adds still more empty spaces here
and there, blurs even further the district's al-
ready poor distinctions between private and
public space, and amputates the existing com-
merce, which is no great shakes.
The early plans for this renewal included, for
example, a relatively large imitation-suburban
shopping center. But further thought gave the
planners a faint glimmer of the realities. A large
center— larger than that required for the standard
shopping needs of the renewal district's residents
—"might draw into the area extraneous people,"
as one of the architectural planners put it. A
small shopping center was thereupon settled on.
Large or small matters little.
It matters little because Hyde Park-Kenwood,
like all city districts, is, in real life, surrounded
by "extraneous" people— hundreds of thousands
of them. The area is an embedded part of Chi-
cago. It cannot wish away its location. It can-
not bring back its one-time condition, long gone,
of semi-suburbia. To plan as if it could, and to
evade its deep, functional inadequacies, can have
only one of two possible results so far as safety
is concerned:
(1) Extraneous people will continue to come
into the area as they please, including some who
are not at all nice, and the opportunity for street
crime will be a little easier, if anything, because
of the added emptiness. (2) Or a determined
effort can be made to keep extraneous people
out of the area. Indeed, according to the Nno
York Times, the adjoining University of Chi-
cago—the institution that was the moving spirit
in getting the plan under wav— took the extraor-
dinary measure of loosing police dogs every night
to patrol its campus. The dogs are trained to
hold at bay any human in this dangerous un-
urban inner keep. The barriers formed bv new
projects at the edges of Hyde Park-Ken^vood,
plus extraordinary policing, may be able to keep
out strangers. If so, the price will be hostility
from the surrounding city and an ever more
beleaguered feeling within the fort. And who
can be sure, either, that all those thousands right-
fully within the fort are trustworthy in the dark?
I do not wish to single out one area, or in this
case one plan, as uniquely opprobrious. Hyde
Park-Kenwood is significant mainly because the
diagnosis and the corrective measures of its plan
typify in slightly more ambitious form plans con-
ceived for cities all over the country. And in city
after city, we are seeing the results of orthodox
city planning of this kind: great cyclone fences
are erected to "protect" sequestered projects and
developments from their surroundings and
special police are hired to chase intruding boys
—while the crime rates rise, and people cling to
their cars at night. Hyde Park-Kenwood, in
short, is not a local aberration but an example of
how we are deliberately building unsafe cities.
In this article I have pointed to some lively
and well-used city streets and neighborhoods
where lives are secure and civilized and public
violence and barbarism are rare. I am not sug-
gesting, however, that we should therefore try to
imitate routinely and mechanically the districts
that do display strength and success as fragments
of city life. That would be impossible, and,
moreover, even the best city streets and districts
can stand improvement, especially in their
amenity. But if life in our cities is to be safe
and satisfying, we must first be aware of where it
now succeeds and fails, and why. Then we shall
at least have some idea both of the kind of city
we want and the failure of most urban planning
today to achieve anything resembling it. And
this first step we have not yet begun to take.
Harper's Magazine, September 1961
SEVEN POEMS
By Boris Pasternak
New Versions by Robert Lowell
My purpose in these very free versions of Pasternak's poems has been to make good English
poems, to capture something of the greatness that flashes through the various literal translations that
have been published. I know no Russian and have snatched, stolen, and improvised from whatever
versions I could find. Friends have rendered the Russian for me word by word and then checked my
final results. I offer what I have done as a tribute to Pasternak, and hope I have caught something of
the triumph and blaze of his tone. — Robert Lowell
FOR ANNA AKMATOVA
IT seems I am choosing words that will stand,
and you are in them,
but if I blunder, it doesn't matter—
I must persist in my errors.
I hear the soiled, dripping small talk of the roofs;
the students' black boots drum eclogues on the boardwalks,
the undefined city takes on personality,
is alive in each sound.
Although it's spring, there's no leaving the city.
The sharp customers overlook nothing.
You bend to your sewing until you wee});
sunrise and sunset redden your swollen eyes.
You ache for the calm reaches of Ladoga,
then hurry off to the lake for a change
of fatigue. You gain nothing,
the shallows smell like closets full of last summer's clothes.
The dry wind dances like a dried-out walnut
across the waves, across your stung eyelids-
stars, branches, milestones, lamps. A white
seamstress on the bridge is always washing clothes.
I know that objects and eyesight vary greatly
in singleness and sharpness, but the iron
heart's vodka is the sky
under the northern lights.
That's how I see your face and expression.
This, not the pillar of salt, the Lot's Wife you pinned down
in rhyme five years ago to sliow up our fear,
limping forward in blinders, afraid of looking back.
How early your first dogged, unremitting idiom
hardened— no unassembled crumbs!
In all our affairs, your lines throb
with the high charge of our passing world. Each wire is a conductor.
45
IN THE WOODS
A LILAC heat sickened the meadow;
high in the wood, a cathedral's sharp, nicked groins.
No skeleton obstructed the bodies-
all was ours, obsequious wax in our fingers . . .
Such, the dream: you do not sleep,
you only dream you thirst lor sleep,
that someone elsewhere thirsts lor sleep-
two black suns singe his eyelashes.
Sunbeams shower and ebb to the How ol iridescent beetles.
The tlragoniiy's mica whirs on your cheek.
The wood fills with meticulous scintillations—
a dial under the clockmaker's tweezers.
It seemed we slept to the tick ol figures;
in the acid, amber ether,
they set uj) nicely tested clocks,
shiltcd, rcgidated them to a soprano hair lor the heat.
They shitted them here and there, and snipped at the wheels.
Day declined on the blue clock-tace;
they scattered shadows, drilled a void—
the darkness was a mast derricked upright.
It seems a green and brown happiness flits beyond us;
sleep smothers the woods;
no elegiacs on the clock's ticking-
sleep, it seems, is all this couple is up to.
SEPTEMBER
THE much-hugged rag-doll is oozing cotton from her ruined figure.
Unlorgetting September cannot hide its peroxide curls ol leaf.
Isn't il time to board up the summer house?
The carpenter's gavel pounds for new and naked roof-ribs.
The moment the sun rises, it disappears.
Last nigh I the marsh by the swimming pool shi\ercd with fever;
the last bell-flowers waste under the rheumatic dewdrop,
a dirty lilac stain souses the birches.
The woods are discomforted. The animals
head lor the snow-stopped bear holes in the fairy tales;
behind the black park fences, tree trunks and pillars
form columns like a newspaper's death cohmin.
The thinning birchwood has not ceased to \\ater its color-
more and more watery, its once regal shade.
Summer keeps mumbling, "I am only a few months old.
A lifetime of looking back, what shall 1 do with it?
"I've so many mind-bruises, I should give up playing.
They are like birds in the bushes, mushrooms on the lawn.
NoAV we have begun to paper our horizon with them
to fog out each other's clistance."
Stricken with polio. Summer, le roi soldi,
hears the gods' Homeric laughter from the dignitaries' box—
with the same agony, the country house
stares forward, hallucinated, at the road to the metropolis.
46
HAMLET IN RUSSIA, A SOLILOQUY
"my hcaii throbbed like a boat on the water.
My oars rested. The willows swayed through the summer,
licking my shoulders, elbows, and rowlocks-
wait! this might happen,
when the music brought me the beat,
and the ash-gray water-lilies dragged, and a couple of daisies blew,
and a hint of blue dotted a point off-shore-
lips to lips, stars to stars!
My sister, life!
the world has too many people for us,
the sycophant, the spineless—
politely, like snakes in the grass, they sting.
My sister!
embrace the sky and Hercules
who holds the world up forever
at ease, perhaps, and sleeps at night
thrilled by the nightingales crymg . . .
The boat stops throbbing on the water . . .
The clapping stops. I walk into the lights
as Hamlet, lounge like a student against the door-frame,
and try to catch the far-off dissonance of life-
all that has happened, and must!
From the dark the audience leans its one hammering brow against me-
ten thousand opera glasses, each set on the tripod!
Abba, Father, all things are possible with thee—
take away this cup!
I love the mulishness of Providence,
I am content to play the one part I was born for . . .
quite another play is running now . . .
take me off the hooks tonight!
The sequence of scenes was well thought out;
the last bow is in the cards, or the stars—
but I am alone, and there is none . . .
All's drowned in the sperm and spittle of the Pharisee—
To live a life is not to cross a field."
WILD VINES
BENEATH a willow entwined with ivy,
we look for shelter from the bad weather;
one raincoat covers both our shoulders—
my fingers rustle like the wild vine around your breasts.
I am wrong. The rain's stopped.
Not ivy, but the hair of Dif)nysus
hangs Irom these willows. What am I to do?
Throw the raincoat under usl
47
THE LANDLORD
HAVING crossed the curb in the courtyard,
the Landlord journeyed to the feast,
into the Bride's house—
with him departed the Italian singer,
behind the Bride's weathcrstripped doors,
between one and seven,
the snatches ol talk had quieted down,
but the sun rose blood red in the middle of the bed-
he wanted to sleep and sleep and sleep.
The accordion began to weep,
the accordion-player lay sj^read out on his instrument-
hearing the j^alms clajjping, the shuffle of the shining serfs.
The feast's whole llourish jingled like silver in his hand,
again again again again,
the song of the broken accordion.
Rustling tinough the bed and the sleeper,
the noise, whistling and the cheering,
swam a white peacock.
He moved his hips,
and strutted out in the street,
this beautiful bird . . .
He shook his head, he ruffled his breast-feathers;
suddenly the noise of the game
is the stamping of a whole procession. . .
He drops into the hole of the sun.
The sleepy courtyard grows businesslike,
mules stand up by the stone well,
teamsters shout down the laughter of the feast.
A band of pigeons
blasts from the sky's blue bowl,
as if it were following the wedding party,
as if life were only an instant, of course,
the dissolution of ourselves into others,
like a wedding party approaching the window.
SPARROW HILLS
LIKE water pouring from a pitcher, my mouth on your nipples.
Not always. The summer well runs dry.
Not for long the dust of our stamping feet, encore on encore
from the saxes in the casino's midnight gazebo.
I've heard of age— its obese warbling!
When no wave will clap hands to the stars.
If they speak, you doubt it. No face in the meadows,
no heart in the pools, no god among the pines.
Split your soul like wood. Let today froth from your mouth.
It's the world's noontide. Have you no eyes for it?
Look, conception bubbles from the bleached fallows;
fir-cones, woodpeckers, clouds, pine-needles, heat.
Here the city's trolley tracks give out.
Further, you must put up with peeled pine. The trolley poles are detached.
Further, it's Sunday. Boughs screwed loose for the picnic bonfire,
playing tag in your bra.
"The world is always like this," say the woods,
as they mix the midday glare, Whitsunday, and walking.
All's planned with checkerberry couches, inspired with clearings—
the piebald clouds spill down on us like a country woman's house-dress.
These poems will appear in Robert Lowell's neiv hook, "Imitations" which rvill be published by
Farrar, Straus in November and will contain his versions of poems by Homer, Sappho, Franqois Villon,
Baudelaire, Mallarme, and Rilke, among others. Mr. Loivell has received the National Book Award for
his "Life Studies," published in 1959, and the Pulitzer Prize for "Lord Weary's Castle," published in
1947. Last spring Farrar, Straus published his verse rendering of Racine's "Phaedra."
Harper's Magazine, September 1961
MR. FUTURE
A Story by LEO ROSTEN
^r
ID I D not hear the door open behind me. I
heard nothing, indeed, until a musical voice
murmured, "You may terminate your reverie.
Lieutenant."
I jumped.
Leaning against the door, which he had closed
noiselessly behind him, was a figure who might
have stepped out of Dostoevsky: a tall man with a
red beard, a shock of red hair, baby-blue eyes, a
thin blade of a nose. On the left breast of his
maroon hospital bathrobe a colonel's eagle was
pinned. He looked about fifty-five. "Sharp now,
lad. Sharp!" He waved a swagger stick and seated
himself with a flourish that swirled the bathrobe
around himself tightly, poking the stick into one
of the folds to carry it across the arm of the chair.
"Yf)u may be seated." Those blue eyes— very
bright, mocking, vaguely maniacal— gleamed
will) piercing clarity. "Proceed to interview me,
ill I lie customary fashion, antecedeni lo my ad-
mission into your woebegone ward. Close your
mouth, Lieutenant! I am quite aware that you
can breathe. You resemble an idiot."
I opened a drawer nervously and rummaged
around for an admission form, stalling for time,
saying, "Quite a rain we're having, Colonel."
His eyebrows formed inverted "V"s. "Colonel?
Colonel? I see no colonel in this dreary chamber.
What evidence warrants your absurd attribution
of rank?"
"The eagle, sir," I said in astonishment. "On
your robe."
"Correction!" he barked. "There is atz eagle
on a bathrobe."
"Oh. Isn't it your eagle?"
"No."
"Nor your bathrobe?"
"No!"
I cleared my throat. "Sir, would you mind
telling me-"
"D^dighted!" He threw his head back and ex-
ploded in laughter. "One encounters similar
49
contretemps with the cluttering, clamorous clods
in the unmedical corps upstairs. Oh, that the
Army of the United States should come to this!
Selective service, inductees! I wrote an expose of
the farce for the Chief of Staff, an old friend. It
upset him deeply. But of course it was too late.
Millions had already contaminated our ranks.
M^ell, I did my duty, that I did. No man can aver
that Mr. Future did not his duty do."
"Is that your— name, Colonel?"
He jerked his head from side to side owlishly.
"You are clearly hallucinating." He pointed that
blade of a nose at the ceiling and shook with
glee. "Bravo, Mr. Future, bravo.'"
I found myself hoping that someone would
enter the room. I started to excuse myself, to
step across the hall, but remembered that Cap-
tain Newman and Stacy Mathieson were at Lub-
bock Field for a two-day conference. Captain
Jarvis would be starting on morning rounds. My
hand wandered to the phone. The man with the
red beard leaned forward. "I detest stupidity,"
he murmured. "There is no need to seek rein-
forcement. Fear not; I am unhomicidal."
I remembered something Captain Newman
had said a long time ago: "Never show you are
afraid of a patient. Even a violent one. Your
fear is more dangerous than his hostility. He
wants the reassurance that you are not frightened
by that in himself which frightens himself and
threatens to overwhelm him." I arranged the ad-
mission form in front of me. "May I ask how
you got here?" I tried to sound brisk.
"You may ask; I may not answer. Remove the
ambiguity, sir."
"Who— sent you here?"
"A malignant M.D. upstairs, one Captain
Robling. He is perbophoric."
"I beg your pardon."
He winked slyly. "You do not understand the
word?"
"No, sir."
"Neither did that idiot Robling. He would not
know how to track a hippopotamus through the
snow!"
"Did he give you permission—"
"He? Give? Me?" The desk shook under the
blow of his fist. "It is I, sir, who give permission.
I informed Dr. Rhubarb of my destination. Get
on with your questions, man."
I poised my pen. "Name, please."
"Mr. Future."
I cleared my throat. "First name?"
"Objection! Immaterial and irrelevant. Put
down any name you wish. Yes. Any-name Future.
Next."
"Date of birth?"
He leaned forward. "The day he left."
"Who's he?"
"A friend," he whispered, "a very close and
special friend. Mr. Past. Would you like to
know about him, where he went, why he will
never return?"
I leaned back in my chair. "All right."
"Ah . . . You restore yourself in my good
graces. Mr. Past is gone, sir, far from these
primitive, puerile purlieus. You have observed,
I trust, my skill in alliteration. Where is Mr.
Past? I gave him my word, as an officer and a
gentleman, never to reveal his whereabouts. Lips
sealed. Ozymandias." He winked again. "Ergo.
Your hospital has me, Mr. Future, about whom
they know nothing; but in their files rests a
dossier on Mr. Past, who is nowhere to be found.
One patient with no case history; one case his-
tory, but no patient. What a paradox! What a
triumph! ... At this point you should inquire
about my age."
"How old are you?"
"How gullible you are. . . . Why must I be
surrounded by dolts— dupes, drones, depressive
dumbbells? I am excellent on 'd's today. De-
cidedly. There's another." He put both hands
out in supplication. "Do not be deceived by my
facade. I have been diagnosed as psychotic:
paranoid-schizophrenic. I do not mind. I do
not agree, mind you, but mind I do not, though
I detest psychiatric jargon. / put it to you simply:
I am sick, sir. Sick of the Army to which I gave
my life and my brilliance; sick of this pana-
tropical pesthole; sick of being questioned,
probed, doused, spied on; sick of the disgusting
charlatans who masquerade as physicians— at
least two of them upstairs are latent homo-
sexuals; be on guard, lad, on guard. I am also
sick of you!" He reached across the desk, picked
up the admission form, tore the page down the
Leo Rosten, the creator of ''H'^Y^'M'' A*^
K^^A'^P^L*A^N'' and many short stories, movies,
and melodramas, as well as social studies of Holly-
wood and the religions of America — among other
topics — will have his new novel, "Captain Neivman,
M.D." published by Harper in October. In the novel,
from which this story is adapted, "Mr. Future" is one
of the characters on the psychiatric ward in an Air
Corps hospital in the American Southwest during
World War II. Mr. Rosten is special editorial adviser
to "Look" and a faculty associate at Columbia Uni-
versity, and ivas deputy director of the OWI and
special consultant to the Secretary of War.
50
MR. FUTURE
center, turned the parts, tore them across and,
rising, holding his arm high above his head, let
the fragments flutter down from his hand in a
paper snowfall. "Now, sir, you have my permis-
sion to escort me to Ward Seven."
"But I can't— Captain Jarvis will have to
authorize it."
"He will," whispered Mr. Future, "he will.
Swiftly, swiftly, for I feel the fearful furies clos-
ing in." He drew himself up to his full height
and lifted the swagger stick, signaling me to
follow him. Even in that drab and shapeless
robe, he looked majestic.
CAPTAIN JARVIS, after a sardonic
lecture from Mr. Future on dementia
praecox ("which, sir, may at any moment tuin
into three-dimensional postcox"), assigned Mr.
Future to Room E.
The case history I got from the files of Main
identified Mr. Future as Colonel Norval Algate
Bliss. A professional soldier for almost thirty
years, he had completed tours of duty in the
Philippines, the Canal Zone, Guam. After Pearl
Harbor, he had been an executive officer in the
Fourth Interceptor Command, San Francisco.
He flew to Australia on a liaison mission in the
spring of 1943.
In Port Moresby, New Guinea, his aide found
him in his quarters one morning, entirely nude,
cursing and ripping the sheets to shreds. In the
base hospital, said the psychiatrist's report, he
developed a peculiar facial tic and "onomato-
mania," dwelling on certain words compulsively,
as if they were endowed with magical powers.
He often invented words, words entirely without
meaning. During a hurricane he had become
homicidal, almost choking an attendant to death.
He was put in a straitjacket. "E.S.T." was in-
itialed under "Treatment." After six sessions of
electroshock in a general hospital, he was shipped
back to the States. . . .
When Captain Newman returned from Lub-
bock he made me repeat every word I could re-
member from that extraordinary first interview
with Mr. Future. He did not seem impressed by
the bizarreries which had made so vivid an im-
pression on me. He asked me whether Mr.
Future had referred to himself in the first per-
son or the third person, if he had perspired
much, if he showed spasmodic tremors, "Did he
identify the two doctors upstairs— the ones he
called queer?"
"No. He didn't, by the way, say they were
queer; he called them 'latent homosexuals.' "
Captain Newman frowned. He entered Room
E. Mr. Future was propped up in bed, the sheet
drawn up under his beard, a book in his hands.
"I granted no appointment for this hour!"
"I'm Captain Newman."
The book lowered in Mr. Future's hands.
"Ahhh . . . the perceptive one of whom I hear
the baboons babble brightly. At last. Come in,
sir, do come in." He waved regally. "Forgive the
antiseptic aroma and the dreariness of the decor.
Neither, of course, did I choose. . . ." His crystal
eyes were dancing. "Making observations on
the patient, eh. Captain? You should learn to
control your expressions. I await your first ques-
tion."
"How do you feel?" asked Newman.
Mr. Future winced. "Tsk, tsk! Standard open-
ing. You disappoint me. Have you no imagina-
tion?"
"I'm holding it in reserve. You've got enough
for both of us."
"Clever, clever 1 . . Consider: First, you bestow
a compliment on the patient, to establish rap-
port; then you attempt a tacit alliance— with that
oh-so-innocuous 'both of us.' A lesser man than
I would walk into your trap." He indicated the
wicker chair. "Do sit down. Captain Boo-man,
do sit down."
"Thank you. Colonel," said Newman wryly.
"Colonel? Colonel?" The red head bobbed
from side to side.
"What do you prefer I call you?"
"It is a matter of fact, not preference!" he
glared. "The name is Future, not Colonel."
"And mine is not Boo-man."
"Excellent, Captain, excellent! I underesti-
mated you. But you are beset and beleaguered
by blockheads— brainless, benighted blockheads.
I am in a mood that bursts with 'b's this morn-
ing."
"Brilliant!" Captain Newman got his ciga-
rettes and held the package out.
Mr. Future's eyes gleamed as he murmured,
"Are you mad, sir?"
"Not at the moment."
"Offering a cigarette— in a psychiatric ward?
Matches, sir! Damnably dangerous in the hands
of demented men."
Newman nodded. "I was going to light it for
you."
"You were not going to let me hold the
matches?"
"Certainly not."
"Bravo! I commend your candor. I believe I
shall like you."
"That shouldn't be hard; I'm a likable type."
A STORY BY LEO ROSTEN
51
Mr. Future grinned. "I believe we shall under-
stand one another."
"You'll understand me, all right," said New-
man. "I'm not so sure that you want me to
understand you."
"Then we understand each other already!"
The head went back; a laugh boomed out; the
red beard shook. "Capital, sir! You are shrewd
in appraising my resistance, and canny in trying
to effect a transference. My insight takes you
by surprise, eh? You must learn to control your
expressions. I happen to be a student of psy-
chiatry, sir. By necessity, not inclination. It is
child's play for me to use your silly mumbo-
jumbo. Oh, what a pity Mr. Past is not here!
He would be amused by you and enchanted with
me. Enchanted, sir, beguiled. No, I am tired of
'b's; they contain 'boring' and 'banal.' "
CAPTAIN N E \V M A N looked at his
watch ostentatiously. "We have thirty min-
utes before my next patient. You can use it up
trying to show me how skillfully you play with
words, how cleverly you produce verbal smoke
screens— and waste my time and yoins; or you can
lower your guard a couple of notches and tell me
a few things which might— just possibly— help me
alleviate some of your misery."
"Misery, sir? Mr. Future? Bah! You are con-
siderably more miserable than I!"
Newman shook his head. "I'm only impatient.
You-"
"Yes? Go on, go on." Mr. Futiue leaned for-
ward eagerly.
"Nothing."
"You must be fair, sir! You are deliberately
inciting me. It is / who am impatient, not you.
What were you going to say? I have certain
rights; I insist upon them. Complete your
thought!"
"You," said Captain Newman, "are afraid."
Hate flared up in the blue eyes; then they
widened in a parody of dismay. "Afraid? Bless
my soul, O penetrating pharmacist of the psyche:
of what?"
"Of what you may reveal."
"Careful!" Mr. Future Avhispered.
Captain Newman groaned. "Can't you stop
being clever? This isn't a fencing match. We're
not trying to score points, or win—"
"But you are!" cried Mr. Future. "You are
trying to win."
"What?"
"My confidence!" The head shot back; the
whole body shook with glee.
"Hooray. Hooray for Mr. Future," said New-
man. "How cunning he is. If it's flattery you
want, here's a bushelful. You are an extremely
intelligent man. You have an excellent brain
and a remarkable sense of words. Now— can we
go on from there?"
Mr. Future was beaming, nodding, chuckling
into his beard, stroking his mustache in vast self-
satisfaction.
Captain Newman sighed. "But what a pity
that such intelligence, such energy and skill
should be wasted on such trivial gestures. For
what? To impress an Air Force psychiatrist you
hardly know, in an obscure Army hospital—"
"You flatter yourself!" laughed Mr. Future.
"I am not trying to impress you!"
"No? Then you must be trying to impress
him."
Mr. Future smiled slyly.
Newman shrugged. "How strange."
"Eh? Why?"
"WMiy should one have to try so hard to im-
press one's dearest friend, the one who really
understands you—"
Mr. Future's features went dark. "Do not
meddle, sir! You will never understand certain
things!"
"I think I understand; but I don't agree."
"That which exists between Mr. Past and Mr.
Future is sacred! You want to destroy it!"
"Change it," said Newman.
Mr. Future licked his lips. "How?"
"I want to put Mr. Past where he belongs, in
the past. And all your ingenuity and pyro-
technics—do they really change anything? You're
so miserable, Mr. Future, so very miserable.
Running, t^visting, tinning, fleeing— from what?
You, and Mr. Past, you're both men, aren't you?
You've constructed it that way. So you can live,
in secret, with another man—"
"Goddam your eyes!" Mr. Future shouted.
"God shrivel your heart and consume your
monstrous brain. You are vile, vile, vicious and
contemptible. I scorn your solicitude!"
Captain Newman nodded. "Most people talk
in order to express themselves. But you—" He
stopped.
"Continue," said Mr. Future. "Go on. How
do I talk?"
"You," said Captain Newman, "talk to conceal
yourself."
Mr. Future's eyes burned. He spat on the floor.
"Nor will you penetrate the place where Mr,
Past hides. Never!"
"Maybe you're right."
Newman tapped a cigarette on the back of his
52
MR. FUTURE
hand and struck a match, observing how greedily
the man in bed followed the flame as it came up
to light the cigarette.
"One day," Mr. Future whispered, "I will
show you what I can do with fire. Ectomorphic
ectonesia. The triumph of spirit over matter . . .
You were asking me to describe Mr. Past."
"I was not," said Newman.
"How direct you are."
"You want me to ask you."
"Excellent, Captain! You are not one to be
ambushed." Mr. Future grinned. "Ask me."
Newman shrugged. "Would you care to de-
scribe Mr. Past?"
"I care very much. But to care is not to
comply."
"Can you describe him?"
"I can, but shall not. . . . Do not be dis-
couraged."
"How old is he?"
"That's better. He is as old as Mr. Future."
"How tall?"
"As tall, too."
"What does he do?"
"Be more specific."
"Does he have a profession?"
"He does not practice what he professes," Mr.
Future chortled.
"It's your time you're wasting."
"It is not wasted. I wish to frustrate you."
"Congratulations. I am now frustrated.
"You delight me."
Captain Newman pointed to his watch.
"Twenty-two minutes left. Use them or fritter
them away."
"You are at my disposal," smiled Mr. Future.
"But not at your mercy."
"Oh, fudge. Return to Mr. Past."
"Does he wear a beard, too?"
"No! Are you not perceptive, sir? Beards
bespeak bravado, and bravado is beneath— but
you have bedeviled me back to the 'b's, blast you,
and soon I shall be angry with you."
"You already are." Captain Newman stubbed
the cigarette out on his heel and got up.
"Well . . ."
"Wait! I am enjoying your visit."
"I don't doubt it. But I didn't come here for
the purpose of providing a patronizing patient
with a plethora of pleasure."
Mr. Future laughed uproariously. "How
shrewd of you. Seven 'p's! Yes, you are swift and
see through many disguises; but I am swifter. I
make the case insoluble, sir; confess it! For Mr.
Future has no past and Mr. Past has no future!"
He threw his head back and roared, "Ho, ho, ho.
sir, ho, ho, ho! Ha, ha, ha, sir, ha, ha, ha! I shall
answer but one more question."
"I have nothing more to ask you today." Cap-
tain Newman started for the door.
"But you must!" cried Mr. Future. "Waitl
That is not fair! I still have twenty minutes!"
"I'll see you tomorrow."
Mr. Future leaped out of bed. "Goddam you!"
He hurled himself between Newman and the
door. "You will stay!" He raised his fists over
Newman's head. "Go back! Sit down before
I-"
"Behave yourself!" said Newman sharply. "You
won't do that, Mr. Future. You don't want to
be put in restraint, do you? And I don't want
to commit you, not yet. I'm a friend of Mr.
Past's, too. . . . Now, put your arms down. Go
back to bed. Tomorrow, we'll talk. . . ."
Mr. Future lowered his arms slowly, blink-
ing, chastened and bewildered. "Oh, dear. Oh,
dear . . ." Then he glanced at Captain Newman
covertly, winking. "That orderly, Lawrence. Do
transfer him, sir, lest I be compelled to strangle
him with my bare hands."
\\ /hen Captain Newman finished his
W rounds the next day, he studied Mr.
Future's chart for a long time. Mr. Future had
refused to swallow any pills. He had refused
medication. He had refused sedation. He had
sat up in bed, in the dark, all night long, carry-
ing on an animated conversation with Mr. Past.
Newman entered Room E. Mr. Future was
sprawled out on the bed, wearing his khaki shirt
and tie and the pants of his pajamas. "Bonjour,
Capita ine," he called brightly. "Also Guten Tag,
Buon giorno, and God morgen, which is Swedish.
I speak four languages fluently. Well, no mat-
ter; the correlation between languages and in-
telligence is negative. Any idiot can learn
Chinese— if he is a Chinaman. Won't you be
seated?"
"Merci."
Mr. Future laughed. "You delight me. Oh, I
do hope you survive."
"Survive what?"
"Me."
Captain Newman smiled. "I suppose you know
that you are somewhat paranoid?"
"Oh, yes."
"Do you know what that means?"
"Bah! Your patron saint, Sigismundus Freud,
has taught you, no doubt, that in all paranoia
there is a homosexual base."
"Do you agree?"
A STORY BY LEO ROSTEN
53
Mr. Future regarded him slyly. "The dismal
doctor was projecting, was he not? All seems
jaundiced to the jaundiced eye."
"I see that you won't take any of the pills I
prescribed."
"I do not need to sleep! I have surmounted
the call to oblivion."
Again, as on the preceding day. Captain New-
man offered him a cigarette and this time, his
eyes gleaming, Mr. Future took it. Captain New-
man struck a match. Mr. Future lighted his ciga-
rette, then gently removed the match from
Newman's hand. He did not blow out the match.
He did not even look at it. The flame began to
burn his fingers, but Mr. Fiuure made not the
slightest response or grimace or movement.
The two men eyed each other in silence.
The smell of burning flesh made Mr. Future
cock his head to one side with an expression of
amusement.
Caj)tain Newman pointed to the match.
Mr. Future grinned.
Newman leaned over, blew the match out and
removed it from between Mr. Future's fingers.
"What am I supposed to do now? Hail you as
j)rophet? Start a new religion?"
"Bah! You do not grasp the point of my
demonstration."
"You showed me the triumph of mind over
matter."
"And you think me mad. Do you not?"
"Well, you certainly act mad," Newman
sighed.
"And am I not?"
"What do you think?"
Mr. Future punched his pillow in exaspera-
tion. "A cheap device! You evade the point. I
asked what you think, sir. Am I not entitled to
direct response? Is Mr. Future mad or is he not
mad?"
"Mr. Future," said Newman, "is an invention."
Mr. Future smiled. "Is he incurable?"
"I'm trying to decide."
The red beard waggled. "At least you are
honest. Not like the others. They persecuted
me."
"Who are 'they'?"
"The doctors."
"Oh, come now. Doctors don't go around
persecuting patients."
Mr. Future grinned. "Your equanimity does
not deceive me, sir. You are simply maintaining
professional detachment. Oh, you do it well, that
I grant you. Yet someone is persecuting me!"
"I agree."
The eyes filled with astonishment. "Yes? Then
you see it? Who?" Mr. Future whispered. "Who
is persecuting me?"
"You."
"No!"
"Part of you is persecuting the rest."
"No. Oh, no." Suddenly tears welled into the
pale blue eyes. "Oh, if Mr. Past were only here.
If you could but know him."
"But he is here," said Captain Newman.
"Where? Look— search— examine every nook
and cranny of these ghastly quarters! Where can
anyone find Mr. Past?"
Newman pointed at Mr. Future without a
word.
"You lie, sir!" Mr. Future shouted. "Mr. Past
is gone— far from here. I sent him away."
"Not entirely. You can use the past, learn
from it, build on it. You can reshape it, even
surmount it. But you can't abolish it, not even
you; and even with the most powerful will in
the world, you can't will it away."
"Mr. Future can," whispered the man with the
red beard. "Mr. Future did."
"And is this where you wanted to end? In a
mental ward?"
"It was not I who consigned Mr. Future here!"
"This is where men end who split themselves
in two."
Mr. Future was silent for a moment, lost, for
the first time since he had come to Ward 7, in
sadness. "Shall I tell you a story. Captain? It
was years ago. I was on extended leave, in mufti,
which permitted me to indulge my fancy and
grow this hirsute badge. I was walking through
a long tunnel in Central Park, one cold winter
day, and as I emerged, the sun struck my hair,
my beard. A little lad, perhaps five, perhaps six,
saw me, astonished, open-mouthed, his eyes like
china saucers. 'Santa Claus!' he cried. 'Are you
Santa Claus? Are you?' I hesitated not one mo-
ment, sir, and bowed: 'That, son, is who I am.*
The lad caught his breath: 'But you are so tall;
vou are so big and tall. How will you ever come
down my tiny chimney?' The question gave me
but slight pause. 'Watch,' I said, and lighted a
cigarette and blew out a cloud of smoke. 'This
smoke, so, is like the smoke in your chimney.
Watch.' I puffed and puffed and blew out smoke.
'See? The smoke gets larger and larger, but the
cigarette gets smaller and smaller. And that's
what I do, too, on Christmas Eve. Part of me
turns into smoke, so I can come down your
chimney.' . . . Then I heard someone cry out—
and she came along. Slut. Nurse. Slut. Like all
the rest. She clutched that little golden lad, and
tore him away, jabbering, 'Naughty! Bad, bad
54
MR. FUTURE
boy. Talking to that filthy, crazy man!' " Mr.
Future's head dropped to one side, and though
he made no sound, no sound at all, the tears
gushed down his cheeks.
REACH him? How the hell can I? How
does anyone 'reach' a psychotic?" Captain
Newman looked tired that staff meeting; his
voice had that irascible edge I had come to recog-
nize, the edge of discontent— with a colleague, a
patient, above all. Avith himself.
""What about trying Pentothal?" asked Captain
Jarvis.
"Pentothal breaks down the defenses. And
that's the one thing Mr. Future doesn't need. He
needs all the defenses he's got— and more. He's
afraid to lo^\•er his defenses, e\en for a moment.
Why else his inability to tolerate silence? Why
his fantastic barrage of words, his obsession with
letters, alliteration, puns? He has to obliterate
an internal threat, drown it in symbols, suffocate
it with words. He has to escape from the terrible
temptation to perversity by compulsive preoccu-
pations—Avith verbal games, ])u/zles. rituals. He's
afraid to listen. He's afraid to relax. He's afraid
to reverie, to sleep, even to be quiet. To be quiet
is to be passive, too. To be passive spells danger;
in his mind, it invites attack. Remember his
rage about Private Lawrence. . . ."
One day Captain Newman asked me to come
to Room E with him. Mr. Future was standing
before the window, staring out. His back to us,
he exclaimed, without turning: "Halt! It is use-
less to try to catch me unawares. I have excep-
tionally acute hearing. There arc two of you:
Captain Know-it-all and Lieutenant Be^vildered.
I have made a lifelong study of footsteps." He
threw his head back, turned to face us, and
laughed. "Gentlemen, your questifications. Be-
quest them, I beseech you. I always burst with
'b's, before breakfast."
Captain Newman did an odd thing. He sank
into the wicker chair and gazed at Mr. Future
steadily, saying not a word. Mr. Future cocked
his head to one side. Ncuman did not move.
Mr. Future frowned. The moments passed. Mr.
Future shot me a glare of susjMcion, then glanced
back to Newman. He had not stirred. I think
he wanted to see what Mr. Future would do if
f)ffcrcd no comment, no cue, no loll, no words to
turn against their user, no distractions to seize
upon as respite from an insupportable self. As
the silence sjnin ilscll oiii. 1 saw a bead of sweat
loiin on Ml. Fiiliuc's Ijiow: lie pui on a smile,
Ijul it was a ghaslly giiina<e and I (oukl see it
Avas an effort: his eyes were anxious. Suddenly a
sly, sidelong expression formed on his features;
recognition tried to allay anxiety as the self
mobilized itself against betrayal. "Careful, Cap-
tain," he mmmurcd.
Newman did not stir.
Mr. Future shouted, "You think you're smart
because you make the rules, don't you? It's you
Avho's mad. You!" He towered over Newman's
chair and his hand slashed through the air as if
wielding an axe. a few inches from Newman's
head. He began to sob, like a child in a temper
tantriun, then sank to the bed and buried his
face in his hands. "You bastard," he cried
hoarsely. "You dirty, scheming, clever bastard."
At last Newman said, "How do you feel now?"
"You know how I feel. You won't meet Mr.
Past this Avay. Never." He glanced up. "You
knoAV, I presume, that Mr. Past once floated for
thirty-seven hours in a sea of burning muck be-
fore they rescued him."
"When Avas that?"
"After a certain tfoopship Avas torpedoed. I
Avill also tell vou this: He can do anything Jesus
did."
"Can you?"
"You mean, 'Can he?' " rasped Mr. Future.
"No, Mr. Fiuure. I mean 'you.' "
Mr. Future grinned. "I. sir? "Why, at this very
moment am not I, like oiu' blessed Saviour, being
crucified— betAveen tAvo thieves?"
T
H I S is a copy of the report Captain New-
man submitted that afternoon:
to: Lt. Colonrl Michael Larrabee,
Covimnnding Officer,
Colfax A.A^F.Ii. Hospital
from: Josiali J. Newman. Capl., M.C.
Ser. #0-J-7S5-902
In re: Norval .Mgatc Bliss, Colonel. II.S..\. (0-169-621)
(1) Tlie undersigned requests the summoning of a
Retirement Board meeting to authorize a medical dis-
charge for the patient named above.
(2) The patient is a 52-year-old male in an acute
psychotic phase of schizophrenia, paranoid type. He
exhibits pronounced homicidal drives.
(3) The patient has rt'cei\cd maxinuim hospital
benefits and requires ciistocUal care.
(4) The patient should l)c committed to a veterans'
hospital.
(5) Insulin-coma therapy, under competent super-
vision, may be indicated— in more doses than at-
teni|)tecl in ]5re\ioiis K.S.T. (sec attached) .
Diagnosis: Schizophrenia, paranoid type; acute,
.severe.
I.O.D.: No. IIM.S.
Prognosis: Recjiiircs prolonged hospitalization.
(signed) Josiah J. Nkwman
A STORY r,Y LEO ROSTEN
55
Mr. Future's appearance before the Retirement
Board was brief but memorable. He strode into
the room like an emperor, head high, carriage
superb, left hand on hip.
Colonel Pyser, presiding, tapped his gavel on
its wooden base. "This board is now in session.
. . . Colonel Bliss, will you please state your
name, rank and serial number?"
Mr. Future gazed at Colonel Pyser stonily.
Captain Newman rose and said gently, "Mr.
Future . . ."
"Delighted! Alonzo Archimedes Future,
United States Army, World Victory II. Expert
on tactics, tautology, logistics, semantics."
Colonel Pyser's brow furrowed. Major Wyzan-
ski coughed.
"The patient's name is Bliss, Norval Algate.
Colonel. Serial number—" Newman read it oflF.
"Proceed with the medical report," said
Colonel Pyser.
Captain Newman rose. He gave a resume of
Colonel Bliss' medical history. Mr. Future
listened with the keenest interest, his head mov-
ing in birdlike movements. "Mr. Future, I think
you understand the nature of this hearing, and
its purpose?"
"I iniderstand your purpose." The bearded
figure smiled. "You do not understand mine."
"Mr. Future, how do you feel these days?"
"Feel, sir?" Mr. Future beamed. "My mood
may be described, in technical jargon, as hypo-
manic." He winked at Colonel Pyser. "You, sir,
realize I am here through a gigantic hoax. It is
Mr. Past you seek, of course. He spurns your
invitation—"
"One moment," Colonel Pyser interrupted.
"IVhat do you mean, you're here through a
hoax?"
"The hoax is mine," smiled Mr. Future, "on
you."
Colonel Pyser cleared his throat. "We will dis-
pense with sarcasm. You mention a Mr. 'Past'?
To whom were you referring?"
"To Mr. Past, you silly ass."
"Mr. Future—" Newman cut in quickly (only
Colonel Bliss' rank spared him Pyser's repri-
mand)—"would you tell these officers a little
about Mr. Past?"
"I will not."
"It is important that they know."
"It is important that they be befuddled!"
"Was Mr. Past's legal name— formerly— Norval
Algate Bliss?"
Mr. Future braced his shoulders and stared
straight ahead.
"Was Mr. Past a patient in this hospital?"
Mr. Future snickered.
Captain Newman placed the folder on the
table. "Do you think you are mentally ill, Mr.
Future?"
Mr. Future cocked his head to one side. " 'Do
you think you are mentally ill, Mr. Future?' Do
you think you are mentally ill, Dr. Boo-man?"
It was extraordinary how he mimicked New-
man's voice and inflection. "You are losing the
war, gentlemen. You are pawns in a putrescent
conspiracy, persecuting professional soldiers,
driving them from the ranks, breaking will and
reason on the rack!" He raised his hands in a
travesty of supplication. "More need not be
said. Duty has been done."
"You think these officers are persecuting you?"
asked Newman.
"Of course."
"\Vhy?"
"Because I am intelligent and they are igno-
rant. Because I know what they fear and do not
fear what they know."
"Is anyone else persecuting you, Mr. Future?"
"All the psycho-pseudo-psychiatrists— exclud-
ing you. You merely wish to trap me."
"Do you suffer from any diseases you know
of?"
"I suflfer fools and frauds you know not of."
"Do you feel any pains?"
"Only in the ears— from the prattle of idiots."
"How do you sleep?"
"Miserably."
At this point. Colonel Pyser, who had been
listening with amazement and discomfort, sud-
denly leaped forward, glad, I suppose, to in-
tervene. "You say that you sleep miserably?
AVhy?"
"How would you sleep. Colonel Numbskull, in
a room full of howling maniacs?"
Colonel Pyser's cheeks went livid. "You will
refrain from—"
"I will quote you Samuel Johnson!"
Pyser's gavel came down sharply. "You will
respect the dignity of this board—"
"I will quote the learned doctor!" shouted Mr.
Future. " 'Boy, let us be grave; here comes a
fool!' " He wheeled on Captain Newman. "^V^hy
was I exposed to this tristomic farce? That man
is a fraud, sir, a fool!"
Colonel Pyser was rapping his gavel on the
table insistently. "The hearing is concluded!"
"No!" roared Mr. Future. "Coward! Craven!"
Captain Newman stepped to Mr. Future's side.
"Norval . . ."
"They shall not rob the worthy, nor act Ahab
to the whale!" He winked to Captain Newman.
56
MR. FUTURE
"Paranoia, eh? Let them contend with that!"
Colonel Pyser signaled the MPs and strode out
of the room. Mr. Future shouted scornfully after
him. But all he said to the MPs who led him out
was: "Lads, do not quote scripture to the
heathen, for he will eat you alive."
NO relatives were listed in Colonel Bliss'
file— no wife, no children, no parents. The
only name cited under "In case of emergency,
notify . . ." was a Mrs. Leslie Orkum Cluett.
It took several hours before Captain Newman's
call went through. A soft, pleasantly husky
woman's voice answered, "Mrs. Cluett's resi-
dence."
"Mav I speak to Mrs. Cluett. please?"
"And who may I say is calling, please?"
"My name is Captain Newman. I'm calling
from the hospital at Colfax Army Air Force
Base."
"Oh? . . . One moment, please. I'll see whether
Mrs. Cluett is in." \ moment later the same
immistakable voice said, "Hel-lo. This is Mrs.
Cluett."
"Mrs. Cluett, I'm sorry to bother you, but I
don't know whom else to call. It's about Colonel
Bliss."
""Who, please?"
"Colonel Norval Bliss. Your name is given in
case of emergency, and—"
"Norry? Norry Bliss— gave my name? Are you
sine?" The mellow voice quickened, almost
girlishly.
"Oh. yes. I've got his file in front of me."
"How strange. Did you say you were calling
from a hospital?"
"Yes. Colonel Bliss is my patient."
".Are you a doctor?"
"Yes. Mrs. Cluett, are you related to Colonel
Bliss in :;ny ^\ay?" There "vvas a moment's silence,
so dead that the connection seemed to have been
broken. "Hello . . . Mrs. Cluett . . . are you
there?"
"Yes. I'm here."
"I was asking if you—"
"I heard you, Captain. No, Norry and I are
in no way related. ^\'e were married, many
years ago. It was annulled."
"Oh. I called because I hoped someone, per-
haps you, might come here, to the hospital, I
mean. K; see him."
"What is wrong with him?"
Ca|)tain Newman said carefully, "He's in a
ps\cliiairi( ward, Mrs. Cluett. He's going to be
committed—"
"A mental ward? Norry?" The charming,
husky voice rippled. "Oh, that is rich, really.
That's too good to be true."
"^Vhat did you say?"
"You heard me. Captain. I said he belongs in
a lunatic asylum, and I hope he stays there! I
hope you never let him out! I hope he goes
through the same torture he piu me through—"
"Mrs. Cluett—"
"Don't 'Mrs. Cluett' me, Captain whoever you
are. You telephoned me, didn't you? AVhy that
filthy swine had the gall to put my name down
there I'll never know. If my husband were alive
I'd send him to yoiu' camp— Avith a pistol, so he
could blow that smutty brain out of Norry's
head. ^Vho are you to judge? "W^hat's your first
name? St. Francis? Is that it?"
"Good-by— "
"Don't hang up. I want to know your name!"
"Josiah." he said impatiently.
"AVhat?"
"Joe."
"Joe? Joe Newman? And you want me to rush
out to a hospital and hold poor Norry's filthy
hand—"
"Not any more, Mrs. Cluett—"
"I'll tell you what you can do. Just go out
and dig a grave and throw Norry in, and save
the taxpayers all the money you Jews and
Democrats are wasting in Roosevelt's lousy
war—"
Captain Newman put the phone down. His
hand was shaking.
TH E day before they were to put Mr. Future
on a train for the veterans' hospital in
Canandaigua. New York, Captain Newman went
to Room E. Mr. Future was seated in the wicker
chair, facing the window, his arms folded rigidly,
staring out at the cotton-^vood trees and the
parade ground. It was a dank, oppressive day,
the sky gray and leaden, and all the flags hung
limp and spiritless. Mr. Future made no sound
as Newman entered, no movement Avhen New-
man came beside him. The blue eves were fixed,
hard and cold, with no light in them.
"This may be the last time I'll see you," said
Captain Ne^vman.
Mr. Future might have been a statue.
"You understand, don't you, that they're going
to take you to a veterans' hospital now?"
Silence.
Captain Newman sat down on the bed. "I'm
sorry, .\Ii. Futuie. I'm sorry as hell I couldn't
help you. . . . Maybe I wasn't the right doctor
?
A STORY BY LEO ROSTEN
57
for you. Maybe I didn't really understand. I
couldn't get through to you, could I? ... I just
hope you won't give up. You're an officer. You've
had a brilliant career."
Not a muscle stirred.
Captain Newman lighted a cigarette and held
it before Mr. Future's lips. "We could have one
last smoke together. . . ."
Nothing.
"Are you angry with me?"
No sound, no movement.
Captain Newman rose. "This is good-by, then."
He felt awkward— inept and defeated. "Good
luck, Colonel Norval Algate Bliss."
The arms stayed folded, the head high, the
eyes frozen.
Captain Newman was halfway out of the room
when he heard a whisper, "Captain . . ." Quickly,
he stepped back.
Mr. Future did not shift that frigid pose by
so much as a hair as, in a monotone, he whis-
pered, "Tell her— I tried."
"Who?"
"The one— whose name is written."
Captain Newman forced a cheerful note into
his voice: "Sure. I'll telephone her. Maybe she'll
come—"
"I am now entering a state of catatonia. These
are the last words that shall ever pass my lips."
"Wait! What about Mr. Past?"
There was no answer.
"Don't do this to him!" exclaimed Newman.
"He's part of you. Where can he go if you leave?
Wliere? To whom?"
A shield, glazed, impenetrable, covered those
blue, blue eyes.
"Think, Norval! Mr. Past— he has no place to
go, no place on earth, except to you. He under-
stands you. He needs you. You need him. To-
gether, you can be whole—"
Not even a tremor touched the lips or eyes or
beard.
Mr. Future had entered the future, and would
not return.
I\\' A S asleep, restlessly, tossing, vaguely aware
of the heavy, stifling air, of wheels of
thunder rolling across the heavens, when my
ears were split by a thunderbolt. I leaped out of
bed. My room, for a startling moment, seemed
on fire. I heard something crash overhead and
voices cursing in the next room.
I yanked my trousers over my pajamas. There
would be trouble in the ward; there always was
during a storm, especially with lightning, worst
of all with thunder. I could hear windows slam-
ming all around me. As lightning serrated the
sky, the post became a surrealistic set on some
strange, forbidding stage, lighted up and blacked
out in a flash.
I ran down the porch steps, cut across the
corner of the parade grounds. Clouds— muddy,
restless, angry— churned across the moonless
firmament.
Phantoms were hurrying to the hospital, a
looming presence in which patches of light were
popping. I heard the agitation inside, the wails
of fear, the whimpers of pain reawakened.
As I went through the swinging doors, even
before I hit the ramp, I heard the screaming in
Ward 7.
No one was at the iron door. Through the
bars, I saw the ward in turmoil. Nurses and
orderlies were hurrying from bed to bed, trying
to calm the men. Some had pulled sheets over
their heads, several had covered their heads with
pillows. Carbo Wilkes was sprawled on the floor,
face down, hands clapped over his ears. Nasty
Nevers was standing on his bed, shaking his fist,
howling about the avenging angel and cesspools
of corruption.
Lawrence let me in. His face was the color
of milk.
I saw Captain Newman head for Room E,
where Laibowitz was pounding on the door.
"He's got the goddam bed jammed against the
door or something!"
Captain Newman motioned him aside and
tried the door. It did not budge. "Mr. Future!"
He knocked on the door. "It's Captain Newman!
Open the door!"
Room E was silent.
A nurse came down the aisle. "I found him at
my locker this afternoon, trying to jimmy it
open."
Captain Newman rattled the door. "I know
you can hear me. Listen! I have news! Impor-
tant! I just heard from Mr. Past!"
A rustle, inside the room.
"Mr. Past— is on his way! To join you. He
says he'll never leave you! Do you hear me?
He'll never leave you alone again."
We heard the bed being shoved away. The
door swung back on its hinges. The nurse
shuddered.
Against the dim light. Colonel Norval Algate
Bliss stood silhouetted. He had shaved off his
beard and mustache. He was clad in a feathery
kimono, stolen from one of the nurses' lockers.
He had rouged his cheeks.
"Come in, dearie," he smiled.
Harper's Magazine, September 1961
JULIUS NOVICK
JULES FEIFFER
and the almost-in-group
I
Not to know who Feiffer is, or to be able to
quote his latest strip, is infra dig today
among the bright young and their knowing elders.
IN THE fall of 1956 a young cartoonist
named Jules Feiffer walked into the offices of
The Village Voice, a Greenwich Village weekly,
"absolutely unknown and unsolicited," says a
Voice editor, "and very shy. . . . He simply
wandered in one day with a portfolio under his
arm; stood there with his face hanging out. . . .
[He] looked like ten thousand other scared mice
that wander into editorial ofRces with their heart
in their teeth."
Today, at the age of thirty-two, Feiffer is the
aiuhor of three cartoon-books that have had a
combined sale of more than a quarter of a mil-
lion copies. (A fourth, called Boy, Girl. Boy, Girl,
will appear in October.) Two of the books have
also been published in England, ^vhere Feiffer's
cartoons in The Observer have made his name a
household word. His weekly strips are syndicated
to some forty-two newspapers in the United States
and Canada, with a combined circulation of
around seven million. To top it off, he has
been awarded an Oscar for a movie short made
from one of his cartoon-stories. AVhen even the
abject toilers in the Hollywood cornfields can
get their minds off Elizabeth Taylor long
enough to recognize Jules Feiffer, he can fairly
be said to have Arrived.
In his early years with the Voice, Feiffer used
to get on the subway from Brooklyn every week
to deliver his work in pcison. hi tlicse days of
affluence he has given up this custom, but his
strip still appears every week in the Voice, which
in accordance with its usual ]jolicy lias never
|);ii(I liim a j^enny— not even foi (arfarc. His
following in the Boston Globe and the Honolulu
Star-Bulletin is introduced to the same urban,
Freudian, "liberal," "cultural" (if not always
cultured) milieu that Voice readers have known
for years— not only by reading Feiffer but by
standing in Washington Sc]uare and looking
about them.
Twenty years ago, probably even ten, Boston
and Honolulu would have said the hell with it
and gone on to Little Orphan Annie; but today
Feiffer is Mass Circulation. In between came
the tremendous national upsurge of interest in
"intellect" and "culture" (Adlai Stevenson, high-
brow paperbacks, Charles Van Doren), which
may be only a new manifestation of the en-
ergies which once Avere devoted to mah-jongg
and miniature golf, but \vhich may also be the
beginning of some sort of revolution. The in-
tellectual climbers, the Bronx Bohemians, and
the ostentatiously enlightened junior executives
who pour oiu of the Christopher Street subway
(not usually Villagers themselves, but fellow-
travelers) are only intenser avatars of what is
happening in Boston and Honolulu and points in
betAveen. All over America, men and women,
and especially boys and girls, are dying to be
cultured, sophisticated, high in broAv and stand-
ards, if only they knew how. Many of them are
foolish and even contemptible; but even the
most hilariously phony have a core of genuine
aspiration that someho^v demands respect. These
arc the citizens of the greater Greenwich Village
of the spirit; Feiffer is their unsparing but sym-
pathetic chronicler, and sometimes also their
sj)okesman. He manages, mostly by depicting
them, to tell us more about the way we live in
the mid-twentieth century than any half-dozen
sociologists, two dozen poj)ular novelists, and
Vance Packard combined— and furthermoie,
Feiffer is funnier.
59
His characters, he says, are ". . . on the
periphery of the in-group— which means that
they've never quite made contact, but they're
always aware that contact has been made some-
where. . . ." Because this is more than a local
jjredicament, Feiffer, for all parish-pumpery
about museum memberships and Waiting for
Godot, is an artist of more than local impor-
tance. In fact, his fidelity to local minutiae, his
eye for details, above all his ear for cadences and
catch phrases, are fundamental to his effects.
He is essentially not a draftsman but a dramatist,
;i writer of brief illustrated monologues and dia-
logues—as he has tacitly acknowledged by com-
bining selected strips into an all-Feiffer revue
called The Explainers, which opened in June in
Chicago and is scheduled for New York this win-
lor. (A one-act play of his was produced by Gian
Carlo Menotti at his Festival in Spoleto, Italy,
ihis summer: "It's called Crniuling Arnold, and
is about air-raid shelters, Negro nationalism,
sibling rivalry, and a guy named Arnold who
crawls.") As a dramatist, his command of the
American idiom, like it is spoke right now, like,
is superior (for short stretches anyway) to that of
iilmost any of his colleagues. He achieves uni-
versality (when he does) by not seeming to at-
tempt it; detail, especially in dialogue, gives
point to even the wildest of his fantasias on
familiar themes— as when Oedipus says to his an-
alyst, "Is it my fault I like them mature? All right
... so I marry her. But did / know she was my
mother? It's not like I was sick or something. . . ."
SHIFTING THE ONUS
LIKE so many of his characters, Feiffer's
Oedipus is driven by an uncomfortable urge
to explain himself. We are all affected by the
well-known necessity of living in the Freudian
age of self-analysis— affected whether we realize
it or not, but all the more affected when, as
frequently with Feiffer's characters, we do
realize it. His latest book, like his revue, is called
The Explainers, but the anxious monologue of
self-defense— often in a brilliant parody of Freud-
ian and sociological jargon— has always been a
frequent form for his strips. In one of the
earliest, a sad pony-tailed girl explains, with
more concision than grammar, "Like most girls
if their blind date leaves them in a restaurant to
make a phone call and he doesn't come back . . .
they'd see that in terms of black and white. But
not me. / look for motivation. Like . . . com-
pulsive social behavior patterns . . . or eiratic
interpersonal adjustments or hostile group at-
titudes. There must be some basic drive that
makes him flee fiom a blind date. So why get
upset? It has nothing to do with me personally."
Feiffer people often seem engaged in a gigantic
game of shift-the-onus.
The unease which impels these explainers to
their feats of self-exoneration is the standard, the
classic malaise of the mid-twentieth century: be-
wilderment at the complexities of modern life,
which makes them grasp at any terms, systems,
"concepts" offered to them. "On the periphery of
the in-group," the Feiffer character "tries his
damnedest" (in Feiffer's words) "to follow the
rules, and can never quite figure out why they
continually elude him, or why he can't ever fit
in." Thus one little Feiffer-man is moved to
exclaim, "What I wouldn't give to be a noncon-
formist like all those others."
"With greatly increased concentration on self
analysis," says Feiffer, "so many internal prob-
lems have been revealed that it's hard enough to
be sure of who you are from moment to mo-
ment." And so we try to turn confusion into
some sort of certainty by defining ourselves in
terms of fashionable catchwords. In a recent
strip, a worried-looking man sitting on a stool
explains that "In between being silent, conform-
ing, belonging, acquiring, and taking care of my
leisure problem I haven't yet had a chance to
seek status. I guess I'll fit it in somehoiv." An-
other character says; "Without the latest pass-
word we'd never know what's wrong with us."
In writing about the reasonably ordinary fel-
low (or girl, or child) who in some way can't
quite cope, Feiffer runs the great danger of
turning out a gray and unilluminating tome to
which one's reaction is "How true!" and directly
thereafter, "So what?" He avoids this danger by
satire, taking things just a little too far and
crossing the border into parody and fantasy. And
even at his most "straight," having only a couple
of hundred words and eight or ten pictures in
which to tell most of his stories, he manages to
focus on essential, epitomizing moments of par-
ticular poignancy. Each of dozens of his strips
implies a whole short story, if not a novel.
His pathetic protagonist is found in several
Shortly after his graduation from Harvard in
1960, Julius Novick went to England and spent a
year at the University of Bristol as a Fulbright
Scholar. He is a New Yorker ivho attended the
Bronx High School of Science and later became
drama editor of the "Harvard Crimson." He has
written for the "Village Voice" "New Theatre
Magazine," and other publications.
60
JULES FEIFFER
guises. Sometimes he is called Howard, and has
trouble with his career; sometimes she is a girl,
and has trouble with men ("Am I so differetit?
Don't / read paperbacks? Don't / have needsV);
often he or she is a child ("Eleven years old and
I can't play baseball. . . . Eleven years . . . eleven
years . . . shot to hell"). Children are more
vulnerable to oppression than anybody else; the
world is even bigger and more bewildering to
them than it is to adults; and yet they can view
it, sometimes, with peculiarly candid eyes, and
minds not yet clouded with cant. It is no won-
der that FeifFer likes to draw and write about
them. His Oscar-winning movie short is an
adaptation of a long cartoon-story called
"Munro" (published in the volume PassioneUn
and Other Stories), about a four-year-old boy
who is drafted into the Army.
But the echt Feiffer-figure is a slender young
man named Bernard, who manages to combine
intelligence, and even sometimes a certain degree
of hip-ness, with an abounding and appealing
naivete. As with other Feiffer characters, there is
no story about Bernard that continues from strip
to strip; only incidents and anecdotes, conversa-
tions and monologues. Various misfortunes
happen to him (including two memorable en-
counters with the telephone), but his main prob-
lem is girls: at least four strips show various
inamoratas in the process of breaking up with
him. This "Renaissance man of the rejectees"
is contrasted with a hairy-chested bravo named
Huey; in their diverging adventures Feiffer has
caught the texture of modern American urban
middle-class sexual encounter: the serious con-
versations in bars, the dutiful goodnight kisses in
hallways, the anaphrodisiac "damu flamenco
records." But in any situation, Bernard is an
affecting re-creation of an ancient type: the poor
slob, the victim.
NOT TO TAKE GYM
JULES is Bernard. . . . Everyone who knows
him thinks so," says someone who knows him.
—though Feifi:er himself insists, "I lor Christ sakes
am not Bernard." Nevertheless he looks, with his
mild countenance and fair hair, like a man who
fins been Bernard, even if he is so no longer.
Time and again, his account of his life is reminis-
cent of the situations he depicts in his work. The
sympathy (without sentimentality) with which he
draws sufferers and underdogs stems from the fact
that for most of his life he was one.
FeifFer is rlu.' talented survivor of .1 not-enor-
mr)usly-haj)py childhood, which has left him
with special knowledge and special compassion.
He grew up in the drab East Bronx, amidst num-
erous block wars— in which he never took part.
"I was always too scared. ... I was never a partici-
pant in group activity in which you can get hurt."
He was further set apart from his contempo-
raries by being (like a little boy he sometimes
draws) totally unathletic. "I have always been a
dreadful competitor— a sore loser and a guilty
winner. One of my great desires to grow up was
that, as I understood it, adults did not have to
take gym."
Too scared to be a good student, he describes
his school days as "twelve years of continual in-
ternal retreat . . . and desperately waiting to be
grown up . . . when I wouldn't have to take
orders. It never even occurred to me to be a
rebel ... so that I drew continually from the
time I was five." He finally broke into print as
the staff cartoonist of the James Monroe High
School newspaper.
Failing to get into^ college by half a credit, he
settled down to serious cartooning. "The editor
of the high-school newspaper and I collaborated
on a dreadful little comic-book script which I
only agreed to do because of his alleged connec-
tions. When the connection fell through I tried
peddling this thing around to the comic-book
houses. Eager first for a solid professional cri-
tique, I looked up Will Eisner [who used to draw
"The Spirit"] in the Manhattan telephone book
and, with legs slightly gooey, went down to see
him— my boyhood hero. He blasted the work but
my hero worship was so patently apparent that
he almost had to offer me a job. Ten dollars a
week part-time— erasing pages, filling in blacks,
and dreaming great dreams."
The great dreams were interrupted by the
Army. Feiffer was drafted in January 1951,
served until January 1953, and "hated every
minute of it. ... I didn't even Avant to make PFC
because I don't want the Army to give me a
thing." Nevertheless he found the experience
valuable in a way: "I had never appreciated the
luxury in being able to hate— the clear freedom
in facing pure evil— and the Army was it . . . first
time in my life when I was totally on my own
in ^vhat you might consider a serious man's
world, and discovered that reason, or even sim-
])le basic idiot logic, had very little to do with
day-to-day existence." In his GI spare time he
wrote "Munro"— the long strip about the four-
year-old draftee- which under the circumstances
is amazingly lacking in rancor.
Out of the Army, he spent a year unemployed,
and then a further period on various casual jobs.
A FEIFFER FAVORITE
Asked to pick his favorite cartoon to illustrate this article, Jules Feiffer
replied with a sheaf of ten, from which the editors selected two.
61
1 nm mocefix
iot^BOVi l^)Hl0lr^ Me.
TAfcf iTf eer Ripofir
IT \ ^ .(e-v
UMPgMAMWN)6
1 HAVe (^l/g" THAT^
TO 6i\/e. 60Rem unTAppet?
ro we
IT?
^VFLeip Lo\je
HNce^ He
'■^^ivoceR.Tm.
-J5/'H0QRe
eouHO ro
Fm ^OHB-
BOVH u^e.
I nm et^eitUReo io\/e
to G\\je iooK, ^00 6omAy=^.
/f^TAKe If <^(^
OR Hot ^
ear
m
OUOtd
B^ in
WTHJN6fL- ,,
-(0 ^ " Ml
6i\/e.
WHK 0(00 POOR.
UP ro Mt/ piAce
AMP Levi' TAt/C
meanwhile being a busy and conscientious failure
as a satirical cartoonist: publishers kept telling
him that while they liked his work, the public
would never go for it. But he was convinced
that the only thing wrong with his stuff was that
he wasn't famous, and in order to remedy this
condition he turned to The Village Voice. "They
didn't pay anything, I didn't want anything.
Just a weekly showcase."
IN THE JAWS OF SUCCESS
THINGS happened a lot quicker than I
expected." In 1957 some of his drawings
were published in Harper's as illustrations. A
little later, McGraw-Hill offered to publish a
book composed of whatever Feiffer wanted to
put between covers, and in the spring of 1958
Sick Sick Sick appeared. "It immediately be-
came a best-seller, to everyone's surprise," says
its author cheerfully; and it enabled him to quit
his job and become a full-time satirist.
Today Feiffer lives in a duplex apartment in
Brooklyn Heights (not far from Borough Presi-
dent John Cashmore), and enjoys such perquisites
of fame and fortune as a flood of cocktail-party
invitations and a gorgeous beach house on Fire
Island. But he is in little danger of being
"spoiled" by success. He still keeps his own
counsel, writes and draws as he likes, and pub-
lishes what he pleases. He can depict people
searching for their identities because in a hard
school he has found his own, and kept it even in
the teeth of prosperity.
His work continues to reflect his own feelings
and preoccupations. Many of his subjects (beat-
niks, conformists, Freudians) are fashionable ob-
jects for satire; some are not. But he goes on
excoriating, for instance, the entrepreneurs of
the H-bomb, although such targets will not
J
62
JULES FEIFFER
endear him to many of his readers, and still less
to most of his publishers. Though much of his
work these days is political, he draws uo donkeys
or elephants or other creatures from the ordinary
editorial cartoonist's menagerie. With a few par-
tial exceptions (such as his exquisite parodies of
ex-President Eisenhower's press conferences), his
political strips are essentially not about statesmen
and nations but about the moral problems im-
posed on us by political events.
Whatever you think of Feifter's politics (which
he describes as "nonpartisan radical"), it is clear
that for him all contexts, including the political,
are moral contexts. Oppressive parents; hypo-
critical bosses; the Madison Avenue author of
the " 'Fallout is good for you' saturation cam-
paign"; the members of the " 'I'm just doing my
job' club": in attacking all of them— or rather,
in allowing them to demolish themselves— Feifter
is attacking the moral qualities of apathy, com-
placency, callousness. The one evil that arouses
this gentle, sensitive man to anger, that has no
claim on his wide-ranging sympathies, is not
caring: indifference: the twentieth-century form
of the orthodox deadly sin of sloth.
As fashionable jargon will have it, Feiffer is
"committed," though he admits that he has never
seen a cartoon, and seldom any kind of writing,
that directly changed anybody's mind about any-
thing.
"Rather, what it can do," he says, "is encourage
a climate where different kinds of questions will
be asked . . . and finally after a long period
changes will begin to be made."
Perhaps just here is a central clue to his
paradoxical popularity. "Even in Keuka," says
Jerry Tallmer of The Village Voice, "there are
young guys and girls trying to cope with the
problem of ethics in an unethical age; these
people will work through to his meaning."
A FEIFFER FAVORITE
HAD 10 dS
INte^RATEP-t
'jOO KMOW^
MB.
M 19 mNih
Hfer A WHOLE dm^
OF officiM'fmwm
COic, (<)ITH 5TR0N6
HAui? sHA<e^, mc^^
mo HAD TO vmce
Of A cmce me^
MQ W^R 0?. LAteR. A COOPl^e
Of MbC CAT^ moiO 6CT Mf
IM A comes. AMI/ - MED ALL
BWW SWKe AT gACH OWR AUP
K miimeMeD - m mw
hiAwr T(? iMK mux cNib mm,
mt^ M veHocm^ secm^c / ^
T^m'^ Mm% A {,i^£f?Ai. >^-.^'
wi/^^ SfTTFi? THAU ^em
mot 10 fm eumi-m
I i^oDwm roucH ir- w im<
moi M^ CAR m B^':>e3M
AU(7 m ouu foReie>v wm^
omi, im6oriojoHP%iii
M1 oh€ Of MH mo
10 m^b'\i'dp. hw
XV ?mm TO de
df me^^fei? l^>My
P^O^UM^. 81)1 im
m^ieo-im dfm
mmm of ine
60 1 0^1'^ %\0 I
PICMT tOOK ON
ailLRl&^.l^ hh
A'HWMANI^T
lOOno M IT- If
{fM ^Teicrw
11$ dm A m(>
mi hw I
mi Miri0 .
^0 A coopu Of Mv\ wm
t^m WHAT lm CMUV
w ''tnnmi" Miwve
m Ati' M :^)H(tf im
A ?WP\^i I ?m "^'^^^
GOOV MATURIO.
e^ifTHf PARK ALWAM"?
WO^i UP hdOOl AM mR.
fARW hW I COOiO ^fe
WM im CMi m-
mepT m. i hlh
A mie^ me op
60CU luuef^Miou
AT im^ mi
PAPTM im
HA(7 "MO
m pi^i
owe PIPM'T
(OORK out
Harlan's Magazine, SelJlernhcr 1961
BENJAMIN DeMOTT
THE PEACE CORPS'
SECRET MISSION
They're not spies — as the Communists charge —
nor just well drillers and ditch diggers.
Unless the corpsmen, and the country, understand
their real purpose the whole project may fail.
TH E Peace Corps? It's like existentialism,"
a Columbia University senior complained
six months ago— in conversation with a man
from the Neiu York Times. "Everybody's for it
but nobody quite knows what it's all about."
The complaint is still astonishingly valid.
Peace Corps news has come in buckets, of course,
since the President's March message on the sub-
ject. Bids for projects have been issued from
countries on three continents. The Senate For-
eign Relations Committee has held public hear-
ings on a bill authorizing a $40-million appro-
priation to finance Peace Corps expansion next
year. Training of candidates for pilot ventures
in Ghana, Tanganyika, and Colombia is nearing
completion, and the first group of Corpsmen is
due to arrive shortly in the field. But while all
this "hard" action has made R. Sargent Shriver,
Jr. a household word, and has given the lie to
cynics who called the/ original proposal a mere
Cow Palace electioneering gimmick, it has done
almost nothing to burn off confusion about Peace
Corps methods and goals. And as a result, a
wave of criticism that threatens the entire pro-
gram is now gathering force.
The criticism in question connects at no point
with the new conservatives of National Revieiu
or with the old anxieties of the DAR, which
voted down the Peace Corps by a margin of two
thousand to one at its spring meeting. It stems
in part from skepticism about the usefulness,
moral or otherwise, of harnessing highly trained
specialists as day laborers. (On Peace Corps regis-
tration day at Rutgers this summer I saw a re-
porter look up frowning from a sheaf of bio-
graphical notes on the assembled volunteers.
"Listen," he said. "Will somebody tell me why
in God's name an M.A. in math should go five
thousand miles to dig a ditch?")
Other objections are voiced by federal servants
engaged in sound international projects that
were begun long before the inception of the
Peace Corps. (The Wall Street Journal recently
reported loud complaints that Peace Corps ef-
forts in East Africa will duplicate field work
already undertaken by the International Co-
operation Administration.) And academic spe-
cialists on underdeveloped areas have been
adding their own voices to the volume of reluc-
tant protest— witness this summer's special Af-
rican issue of the magazine Cambridge 38, pub-
lished by Harvard students. Taking note of
plans to send Corpsmen "into primitive villages
to improve economic, health, and living stand-
ards," the editor of the journal observed that
"the vision of an army of foreign inoculators is
a horrifying specter." An MIT African expert
remarked: "Anybody can be taught to give
shots." One associate of Harvard's Center for
International Affairs argued that the Peace
Corps made no sense "as a device for doing un-
skilled or semiskilled labor." Another declared:
"It is amazing how rapidly the range of possible
activities narrows when [you ask]. What prac-
ticable and usefiU things can the ordinary Ameri-
can college graduate do in Africa that an African
with some special training could not do?"
There are no signs as yet that these voices of
doubt have caused any drop in public interest
in the young volunteers. Registration days for
the first batches of Corpsmen were press car-
nivals nearly comparable to the glass-bowl galas
of early Selective Service. One candidate has
64
THE PEACE CORPS
already appeared as a guest on TV's "What's My
Line?" Photographers and TV crews jammed
the Rutgers dormitory lounge chosen as the
scene of "kickoff meetings" for trainees sched-
uled for work in Colombia. Newsmen hustled
from chair to chair in search of chaps from
home-town areas ("Anybody here from Pa.?"),
snapped up unconsidered trifles (a mysterious
petition passed from hand to hand turned out to
be a "List of men who would like an iron"), and
posed a succession of gag pictures (the Newark
Evening Nems laboriously worked out a shot of
the tallest and fattest volunteers).
Nor is the tone of official exhortation of the
Corpsmen less passionate now than in the past.
The President of Rutgers told the volunteers for
Colombia that they and their training program
constituted "the most adventurous, imaginative
enterprise of the university in public service,"
and insisted that, "It's got to succeed." In brief-
ing sessions voice after voice recalled .^dlai
Stevenson's warning that the new j)rogram for
Latin America might be the last chance this
country woidd have to provide leadership there,
and argued that Corpsmen "may well have a
greater impact than the whole six hundred mil-
lion dollars. . . ." Sargent Shriver himself looked
into the past and found that "out on our fron-
tier seventy-five to one hundred years ago we were
doing the same kind of thing" that Corpsmen will
be doing— as for example "barn-raising." He told
a story of a devoted woman of India who had
traveled three days and nights across her country
to ask him a single question: "Mr. Shriver, do
you think your Peace Corps volunteers can
bring the spirit of the [American] Revolution
to India?" And he declared to the young Corps-
men: "Everything depends on your success."
But rhetoric and cameramen do not add up to
clarity. The volunteers I talked to at Rutgers
were uncommonly winning young men, shrewd,
clearheaded, and admirably diverse in abilities.
They ranged from a twenty-six-year-old Bell Tele-
phone cable-splicer (a high-school graduate who
on his own initiative has kc]:)t up a study of
languages since his graduation), to a profession-
ally trained anthropologist from the University
Benjamin DeMott is a critic, scholar, and
commentator on public affairs. His novel, "The
Body's Caf^e," was published in 1959, and his col-
umn, "An Unprofessional Eye," appears rcfiularly
in "The American Scholar." He entered college in
1947, after hitches in the infantry and as a jour-
nalist in Washinfiton; he is now professor of
Eniilish at Amherst.
of Chicago, a man of wide field experience in
Spanish-speaking countries whose conversation
revealed a sharp sense of obstacles as well as
opportunities facing the Corps. But with few
exceptions these men had signed on with little
to guide them except the President's original
executive order, which claimed that:
The vast task of economic development urgently
requires skilled people to do the work of society— to
help tench in the schools, construct development proj-
ects, demonstrate modern methods of sanitation in
the villages, and perform a hundred other tasks. . . .
The trainees had since received an official
document specifying further "work assignments"
—including "well drilling, laying water and
sewage pipe lines, supervising the creation of
school or neighborhood gardens, working with
local crews on building access roads, construct-
ing or improving the local school, organizing
youth clubs, building sanitary latrines. . . ." But
the job list in itself was no better answer to the
questions raised by Peace Corps critics than any
of the other publicity that had swathed the
project from the start. Sixty-five young mathe-
maticians, philosophers, anthropologists, lin-
guists, and technicians laying sewage pipe: was it
really possible that "everything" could depend
on them?
THE NEW THEORISTS
PEOPLE who answer "Yes" to that ques-
tion rephrase it as they go, in order to bring
out a relation between the Peace Corps idea and
a new, almost completely unpublicized theory of
Foreign Aid. The starting point of this theory,
on the negative side, is the conviction that the
West cannot counter the effect of Red agitators
in underdeveloped nations either by shoring up
central-government operations of these nations,
or by investing massively in construction of
dams, highways, seaports, airports, and the like.
On the positive side, the theory rests on the
claim that the best hope of the West lies in the
possibility of transforming masses of rural folk
—people long afflicted by a sense of total power-
lessness— into men conscious of a capacity to
alter their lives by local democratic action.
Proponents of this new theory do not deny
that the tens of billions of American dollars
funneled into capital investment abroad, through
the ICA and other agencies, have strengthened
the economies of the nations involved. They be-
lieve, however, that money spent in this way
df)es more for the Communist contriver of chaos
than for the friend of tlie West. For while some
BY BENJAMIN DeMOTT
65
of its effects trickle down, a quantity of hard
cash clings to central-government fat cats and
fortune builders. And the latter are easy marks
for agitators working among back-country vil-
lagers who lack all sense of local identity and
live in swamps of bitterness or apathy.
That a small, back-country project is neces-
sarily much better does not follow from this, of
course. But, according to the new theorists, some-
thing uniquely valuable can be made of such
projects, provided the emphasis is not simply on
physical improvements. If community effort on
a drainage ditch or a schoolhouse develops
structures of local power out of emptiness— if
it issues in village governments functioning on
representative lines— it may well have a value
proportionally greater than that of a huge urban
hospital or a major hydroelectric installation.
For the completed schoolhouse is not then merely
another square hard object added to the surface
of the earth. It is a sign of change in psycho-
logical landscape— a living, growing obstacle in
the path of agitators who flourish in a power
vacuum.
Easy analogies between frontier life in the
United States and village life in the emergent
countries are not acceptable to the new theorists.
They are certain, though, that Tocqueville and
other early observers were right to see a con-
nection between the stability of the American
system and our national habit of voluntary asso-
ciation at the local level. And they are impatient
with ironical, supersubtle views of small-town
organizations in this country. Satirists chuckle
at these organizations— clusters that include not
only Boards of Selectmen, Town Meetings,
School Committees, and PTAs, but dozens of
"chapter" organizations: Boy Scouts, Lions, Ro-
tary, Chamber of Commerce, Garden Club,
League of Women Voters, and others. In con-
trast, the new theorists believe in dead earnest
that these institutions, meeting regularly and
electing officers year by year, are powerful influ-
ences upon the development of a community
sense of the style and meaning of democracy.
What is more, they believe this style is com-
municable.
In their view, young Americans of intelligence
and sensitivity can do more than dig ditches and
operate tractors for the people of the underde-
veloped countries. They can help these people to
feel their way toward the reality of the demo-
cratic institution as a self-made order, with its
own limits, tensions, and requirements in the
way of patience and restraint. They can do all
this, can function as guides for emergent local
democracy, if the lessons to be taught are not
taught in a void.
This means that instead of offering conde-
scending lectures on "citizenship," they must
find a vital local project that can serve as a
laboratory. The kind of project best adapted to
this purpose is currently described as one of
"Community Development." The idea of Com-
munity Development has a long history filled
with saints and politicos— Gandhi among them.
For American intellectuals the idea is closely
associated with the name of Paul Goodman,
author of the recent Growing Up Absurd and
other works of social criticism. Public servants,
however, are more likely to cite Richard Poston
as the American pioneer in refining the concept.
An intense, wiry, witty research professor at
Southern Illinois University (rarely in resi-
dence), Poston is an unpublicized consultant to
foreign governments and private international
agencies in the U. S. who has become a figure
of some influence on aid and development
policy within the last five years. A vigorous critic
of ICA programs, Poston defines the aims of a
Community Development project as, on the one
hand, "evolving socially responsible individual
traits," and, on the other, developing "all com-
munity functions and institutions that are es-
sential to a strong democratic society." To the
charge that the quotient of idealism in the
theory is impossibly high, his scoffing retort is:
"Look at the numbers."
THOUSANDS OF NEW
VILLAGE GOVERNMENTS
TH E numbers Poston has in mind are,
beyond doubt, enormously impressive. In
India, for instance, a prime minister's committee
began a Community Development program nine
years ago— a pilot project covering 27,388 vil-
lages, each with its village-level worker. In four
years the project was extended to ten times that
many villages (with a population of 150 million),
and it is scheduled to cover all rural areas in the
country by the fall of 1963. The Philippines
instituted a similar program four years ago; by
now more than 1,500 trained village-level work-
ers have led in the completion of numberless
civic-improvement projects and helped to estab-
lish 23,000 local village governments. And there
are comparable programs in Iran, Israel, Puerto
Rico, Colombia, and elsewhere.
The pattern of action varies from country to
country and from section to section within a
country. In one village, local institutions or
66
THE PEACE CORPS
elective offices may have existed at some time in
the past— before, say, the ravages of civil war.
In another there may never have been any local
self-definition whatever, only a blank filled by
some distant appointive authority understood
bv villagers to be remote, mysterious, and cor-
rupt. Normally the Community Development
worker begins by encouraging the simplest forms
of co-operative enterprise— toward any end that
stirs the imagination of the villagers with whom
he talks. He does not dictate out of his sense of
"the real local needs." Neither does he seek out-
side help at the start. His first job is to bring
villagers together as a group conscious of itself,
and concerned to act positively toward a speci-
fic end. In undertaking this job. though, he has
clearly in mind that his final purposes are to
shape commimity attitudes, to encoiuage habits
of democratic decision and representative action,
and to develop luiderstanding of the idea of
elective authority. He reads his success not in a
completed building btu in evidences of a new
community stance to\\ard local issues and prob-
lems.
PETITIONS FOR LIGHT
AC O L O M B 1 A N bnrrio of sixty fam-
ilies, a primitive place called Guacimal-
ito, was the scene of a recent achievement in
this line. (The tale is one of many told at
length in a privately published C.\RE report
on Community Development in Colombia.) Lo-
cal farmers marketed their produce in the
country's second-largest city, Medellfn. Though
the needs of their village were endless— clear
■water was one— the farmers, wide-eyed at the
wonders of the city, saw no need as pressing as
that of procuring electric light. A few of them
had even gone so far as to hire a sort of floating
lobbyist from another toAvn to plead for them
before the light commission.
At about the time of this venture, training
teachers from a nearby school arrived to set up
literacy classes. After the fashion of Community
Development workers, they organized regular
meetings of the townspeople and encouraged the
latter to act for themselves in the matter of
electricity, advising them to circulate a petition
to be presented to the commission. The petition
was circulated and presented— an action that
marked the first time that local peoj^le had rep-
resented their own interest to officialdom.
Officialdom was not much interested in their
interests, to be sure. The commission allowed
that the barrio was low on the list, and that in
any case it Asoiild be imjiossible to bring power
trucks throusfh to them— there was no road to
the place from the highway. This turn of events
produced inore meetings, more petitions, and at
length a concrete proposal, from the village lead-
ers themselves, that the families of the town
build the necessary access road and offer to dig
the holes for the telephone poles— provided the
authorities would sho^v them where to disj. The
proposals were approved and \vork A\as begun. A
Neighbors' Coinmittee A\'as formed to look into
other projects; a plan was approved calling for
petitions about an aquedtict for clean water;
memoranda were prepared to be sent to the
governor of the province asking for auxiliary
police; citizens Tvere appointed to conduct a
barrio survey and census, ^\'hich they did.
It is one thing to organize, another to achieve:
government response to the villagers' initiative
came slowly in all instances. Biu it was forth-
coming. .\nd the machinery developed for local
action has not broken down. Its future is uncer-
tain, of coin-se.' but even if the worst happened,
the political experience of these villagers would
reiTiain a shade more complicated than it might
otherAvise have been. In a place Avhere most
people were apathetic or fearful, a functioning,
representative village "administration" has come
to exist. The villagers have proved, in the face
of the claims of agitators or terrorists, that they
themselves are caj^able of effecting significant
improvements in their immediate environment.
And that proof \\'ill be difficult to expunge from
local memory.
Especially difficult, as should be added, in
those villaQ;es -vvhere the conduct of several
"single-action" projects has been directly con-
nected with the emergence of a distinct political
unit with its own style. In recent months Hojas
Anchas, a mountain vcreda (or roadside settle-
ment) in the Andes municipio of Supia, Caldas,
has completed a boy's school, a public-health
post, a jail. It has also set up a local government
with some rituals of its own. The Colombian
survey reported six months ago that:
Saturday night in Hojas Anchas the Vereda Junta
meets from six to eight to discuss . . . ongoing proj-
ects, finances, future plans, etc. . . . Whether or not
the priest is present the meeting goes on. After the
elected president opens [it], there is a Scripture read-
ing, then notes of the previous meeting are read and
approved. Then the order of the day is read, and
comments arc asked from the floor. . . . Sixty-three
adults make up the junta and [its] board of olTiccrs
[is] elected each year. Requisites for belonging to the
junta, strictly adhered to, are broken down into ob-
ligations and rights. . . .
67
Tlie key obligation, set forth flatly, is: "Majority
decisions must be respected by all." The key
right is: "Anyone who has a problem must be
listened to by the others."
Colombia's recent history lends special urgency
to efforts like these. A twelve-year-old civil war
has killed 300,000; violence has centered in vil-
lage-level conflicts. In 1957 a national plebiscite
approved a constitutional reform calling for al-
ternate four-year periods of rule by Conser-
vatives and Liberals luiiil 1974; an orderly
transfer of power from President to President in
that period plainly depends upon rapid growth
in political maturity.
But the political situation in Colombia can
hardly be described as unique among under-
developed nations. The fact is that experience of
civic action and responsibility is equally urgent
in virtually all the countries that have shown
interest in the Peace Corps. Whether sick or well,
himgry or full, the people of these nations can-
not judge the way of freedom imless they have
an inkling of what that way is like— an inkling
that no hospital or highway or sleek govern-
ment Cadillac can possibly provide for them.
And all available evidence indicates that much
more can be done to provide them with this
inkling than anyone originally suspected.
WILL THEY
KNOW THEIR JOB?
AT FIRST glance, one might expect
Corpsmen in the field to be aware of and
responsive to the possibilities of an assignment
in citizen-building. Nothing in the Peace Corps
program is as rich in promise and dignity as this
concept; nothing could do more to toughen the
resolve of an able, brainy idealist than conscious-
ness that his job begins but does not end in
blisters and sweat. But at the moment, startling
to say, it is by no means certain that this aware-
ness has even begun to exist for the majority of
the men and women involved.
The reason is simple, though behind it lie
ugly twists of timidity and ignorance. The rea-
son is that Peace Corps officials, as well as many
of their counterparts in private agencies manag-
ing Peace Corps projects, have thus far done
virtually nothing to acquaint present and po-
tential Corpsmen with the practical political
purpose of their service.
An exception to this charge can be made for
the Corpsmen now bound for Colombia. The
coordinator of their enterprise, E. Gordon Al-
derfer, assistant executive director of CARE, is
THE HUSKING
DILYS LAING (1906-1960)
AS blind as any shedding snake
I slept ten circuits of the clock
then peeled my skin off like a shirt
and left it hitched upon a rock.
And when my eyes could bear the light
I tasted time with slitted tongue
and knew the hungers I had known
a skin ago when I was young.
strongly committed to the principles of Com-
munity Development, and has written about it
as an effort toward "a maturation of respon-
sible citizenship." While the volunteers were at
Rutgers this summer, they were taught by Rich-
ard Poston himself, retained by CARE to ex-
plain to them how they can best do a job which,
in Poston's words, is primarily that of stimu-
lating people "to think and plan for them-
selves and to execute their own . . . decisions."
Moreover, the Corpsmen will be paired off in the
field with Colombians who have been specially
trained for the program of "Accion Comunal"—
a national version of Community Development
already launched in Colombia. The broad t:isk
of Accion Comunal workers is to lead their
countrymen toward an intuition of the difference
between victims and citizens. And the chance is
good that they will not only accept but expect
advice from young Americans who bring to
local projects both technical expertise and the
experience of people who from birth have been
participants in democratic institutions.
Elsewhere, though, the prospect is far less
bright— and not because Colombia is unique in
needing something more than mere improve-
ment in the quality of physical life. Tanganyika,
where Corpsmen arrive this month, has not
been torn by a decade of civil war. But it is a
new nation (it achieves independence at the end
of this year). And it is beset by serioivs problems
of bureaucratic and political organization. Des-
perately poor, it has had to allocate millions of
dollars to hire civil servants from outside— for
lack of Africans with even minimum experience
in civil procedures. Committed (for the future)
to the British political system, the country is
now run by a prime minister whose "party"
68
THE PEACE CORPS
holds all but one seat in the National Assembly;
dissident forces are reportedly too inexperienced
in politics to organize themselves as a functioning
opposition. In light of all this, it is hard to be-
lieve that the Peace Corps' potentials for the
development of local government and for joint
civic action are less relevant in Tanganyika than
elsewhere.
Why, then, are the official documents and
oratory silent about the possibilities of Com-
munity Development? The answer is not com-
plicated. No Peace Corps official could make a
forceful case for the theory of "aid" described
here without seeming to minimize the accom-
plishments of existing federal agencies in the
international field. And federal agencies are fast
draws in family fights. Furthermore, if an official
did spell out the positive goals, he would lay
himself open to attack by John Birch Know-
nothings and Marxist Know-plenties— old hands
at obscuring the difference between brainwashing
and citizen-building. For these reasons discretion
does command silence— at least when the official
face is turned toward the public.
Whether the silence ought to be maintained
toward the Peace Corps trainees themselves is
another question altogether. Opportunities to
function within the terms of the concept of Com-
mimity Development may not be the same on all
projects. But whether these opportunities are
great or small, it is clear now that the ultimate
significance of the Peace Corps mission every-
where will depend on what is made of them.
And Corpsmen who, because of official caution
or Aveakness in their special training, leave for
the field with no idea of these opportunities— no
sense of a mission beyond that of "doing the
work of society" or of proving their personal ami-
ability—cannot possibly seize them. If they are
to make the contribution they are superbly fitted
to make, and avoid ending in a swamp of bitter-
ness and apathy of their own, they need to be
given an account of the nature of maximum
achievement in their work. They need to be in-
formed that the M.A. in math who travels five
thousand miles to dig a ditch could earn an A
for good deeds and still rank as a failure. They
need to hear of the more vital task: not that of
selling U. S. foreign policy but that of sowing
democratic habits— work which requires subtlety,
keenness, and intuition, as well as a strong back
and pure heart. They need to be told, in short,
that their true task is that of showing forth the
one Americanism that can be shared instead of
envied, and that their true success would be to
leave behind the one kind of installation that
can be counted on to rebuild itself.
Who is to say all this? That question is easier
to avoid than the one asked by the lady who
packed herself three days across her country to
ask Sargent Shriver about the possibility of bring-
ing the spirit of the American Revolution to In-
dia. But not until someone answers it is there a
chance that the Peace Corps promise will be kept.
THE DIKE AND THE VILLAGE
I
N T H E eastern state of Orissa there has been completed recently one of the
biggest power, flood-control, and irrigation projects of modern India at Hirakud.
It has an installed capacity to produce 123,000 kw. of power, while its sixteen-
mile dam across the river Mahanadi, claimed to be the longest in the world, is
designed to irrigate in the first stage about 672,000 acres. . . .
Champaparda, right at the Hirakud project site where the dike ends on the
reservoir side ... is the only village in the area which escaped inundation.
. . . When the earthen dike was under construction [the villagers] worked on it
for nearly four years, although, according to Mangra: "We do not know \\'\\\
the dam was built." ...
What is even more incredible, they have not yet seen the main dam. Cham-
paparda is about eight miles from the main dam, on its left earthen dike. The
peasants of (^hamj)aparda have gone up to the eighth mile of this dike which
they helped to build, but not beyond. Not a single man from this village has
gone to see the main masonry dam or the j)ower house. "We have heard that
there is a house from which electricity comes out. We haven't gone to see it
because we are not interested."
—From Blossoms in the Dust by Kusum Nair, London, Duckworth, 1901.
Harper's Magfizlne, Septcinber 1961
LOVING CARE IS NEEDED
when you're driving, tool
There are so many ways to express your love
for a child— amuse him, caress him, understand
him, protect him from hurt and harm.
Because drivers kill and cripple more children
than any disease, a car is potentially one of the
most dangerous places your child can ever be. So
protect him whenever he is in the car— with a
seat belt.
If every car owner in America had seat belts in
his car— and used them — we could reduce severe
injuries by one-third, deaths by 5,000 a year!
It's terribly important to drive with loving
care, always. And to support strict law enforce-
ment in your town, for where laws are strictly
enforced, accidents and deaths go down. But
can a parent who wants to protect his loved ones
and himself possibly overlook the protection
afforded by seat belts?
Published to save lives, in cooperation with The Advertising Council and the National Safety Council
68A
Ho^jv minding
our ow^n
business
gets a lot of
other things
done
^'-m
This is Haiti, on the Caribbean island of Hispaniola.
About the size of Vermont, Haiti has wide beaches,
high mountains, and a long and colorful history. Cy
The Esso Stove
and Haiti's Erosion
(£sso)
STANDARD OIL COMPANY
(New Jerb ^*..m«-.*^
A new stove was recently introduced in Haiti by our
Caribbean affiliate. More convenient than a charcoal
brazier — faster, cleaner, safer — it burns kerosene.
he traditional Haitian way of cooking is with
harcoal. Through the years, these httle household
ires have used up much of Haiti's forests as fuel.
^r^ '^
As a result, rain — unchecked by trees — has washed
much of the rich top soil into the sea. Erosion has
created serious economic problems for the country.
so helped local people make the stove cheaply.
he Haitian Government quickly recognized the use-
Iness of this stove in combatting erosion.
Thus, our search for a new market for kerosene is
helping to rebuild Haiti's soil. Business, conducted with
imagination, can often produce unexpected benefits.
r^sr
Pholograph lakon hy Fritz Goro of aboi igincs on a reservation in Northern Aiislralia
68D
EUGENE BURDICK
The Invisible
Aborigine
Perhaps he had a chance to become ''civilized"
and rejected it . . . but he has developed a
microscopic awareness of his barren world and
a psychic life as secret and complex as our own.
MA K E a man ol carih, hoiic liiiii clown lo
gaiintness, and pui him in a lunar land-
scape and you have the Australian aborigine. He
is human, beyond dispute, but ol another planet,
another lite, another level.
You will see him first as a shadow, a dark
rocklike quiet shadow, on the edge of the horizon.
He stands with one toot tucked up against the
knee of the other leg, an oddly restful position.
Beside him will be a smaller thinner shadow . . .
shapeless when sprawled, but lean and bony
when standing, and that will be the dingo dog.
Both are thin, both are wary, both are suspicious,
both expect no love. Both scan the landscape in
the same canny way, both have the same innocent
hard eyes. Move toward them and they vanish.
Around a rock, down a gully, behind a tree, but
gone.
The anthropologists say he is the simplest per-
son in the Pacific and the world. He travels light.
The possessions of a whole family, of a lifetime
and sometimes many lifetimes, will amount to no
more than twenty pounds. A stone worn smooth
by handling and sweat and throwing, no bigger
than an apricot, will serve as both a weapon and
a religious object. A woman's hair is valued not
for romantic reasons, but because it is the best
cordage the family will ever have.
The aborigine probably walked into Australia
centuries ago -when that continent Avas connected
to the mainland. For a long time he ranged
down the coastline, moved up the banks of the
Copyright © 1961 by Eugene Burrlick
rivers, followed water wherever it existed. He
never developed money, arithmetic, tools, or vil-
lages. No one is sure why. Even when it was
possible to build habitations and settle down, the
aborigine did not. He roamed endlessly and
grew lean and spare in the process. When the
whites came, the space open to the aborigines
began to dwindle, but they still wandered. Most
of them still do. The difference is that the land
they wander is the worst in Australia.
A few aborigines have settled into towns. They
are not like American Negroes in a cotton town.
The Australian does not see the aborigine. They
will hover at the edge of a sheep shearing, in
the mouth of an alley, in the dark recesses of a
warehouse, in garbage dumps. They are paid,
but they have no names. They function, but they
have no status. The Australian calls them "abo"
or, if the white man is drunk, he roars "boy" or
"nigger" or merely waves a hand and the abo-
rigine obeys. The town aborigines wear cotton
pants and shirts, but their long necks and hand-
some, strongly-carved Dravidian heads look too
raw for the material. Their eyes peer out un-
blinkingly from huge bony foreheads and when
the whites laugh, the black face remains flat. The
aborigine will humble himself for a pinch of
tobacco and then, for no surface reason, will with-
draw into a monumental dignity and quiet.
There is no "color problem" in Australia with
the aborigine. The Australian does not feel
threatened by him. The town-broken abo is a
black shadow that can work, so unsubstantial
that he is usually invisible. The aborigine pleads
nolo cojitendere. "I do not wish to contend," every
time his eyes meet those of a white man. He is
as dingo as his dog, as undangerous.
Yet, one senses, something is wrong with all
this. Behind those deep-sunk eyes and that
strangely elegant body there is a rage, a resource,
a something. One has the eerie feeling that the
aborigine had the chance to become "civilized"
and rejected it. Instead of acquiring rich lands,
commerce, crops, the arts, he has developed a
microscopic sense of his physical world and of the
imperatives of existence. Nothing else. It is
almost as if he wants to keep life balanced on a
razor edge.
CHASING A RAIN CLOUD
I O N C E sat in a jeep and watched a group
of aborigines through my binoculars. They
knew I was watching and they kept a careful
distance. The moment the jeep motor started
they heard it on the dead air. Moving with an
70
THE ABORIGINE
unhurried stride, they would cannily trot down
a ridge . . . knowing full well that to get closer
lo that ridge I would have to double back down
the ridges tor five or six miles to gain on them.
Suddenly, however, their posture changed and
the game ended. They went as rigid as black
statuary ... six figures, lean and tall and angular,
went still. Their heads were in the air sniffing,
rhey all s^vung at the same instant in the same
direction. They saw it beiore I did, even with
my binoculars. It was nothing more than a tiny
distant rain squall, a dull gray sheet which
reached from a layer ot clouds to the earth. In
the 360 degrees of horizon it obscured only a
degree, no more. A white man Avould not have
seen it. The aborigines fastened upon it with a
concentration beyond pathos. Watching, they
waited until the squall thickened and began to
move in a long drifting sl^nt across the dry burn-
ing land. At once the whole band set off at a
lope. They were chasing a rain cloud.
They went after the squall as mercilessly as a
wolf pack after an abandoned cow. I followed
them in the jeep and now they did not care. The
games were over, this was life. Occasionally, for
no reason that I coidd see, they would suddenly
alter the angle of their trot. Sometimes I guessed
it was because the rain squall had changed direc-
tion. Sometimes it was to skirt a gulley. Their
gait is impossible to convey in words. It has
nothing of the jjroud stride of the trained runner
about it, it is not a lope, it is not done with style
or verve. It is the gait of the human who must
run to live: arms dangling, legs l:)arely swinging
over the ground, head hung down and only oc-
casionally swinging up to see the target, a loose
motion that is just short of stumbling and yet
is wonderfully graceful. It is a barely controlled
skimming of the ground.
They ran for three hours. Finally, avoiding
hummocks and seeking low ground, they inter-
cepted the rain squall. For ten minutes they ran
beneath the squall, raising their arms and, for
the first time, shouting and capering. Then the
wind died and the rain squall held steady. They
Eugene Burdick, author of "The Ninth Wave"
and co-author of "The Ugly American," drew this
portrait of the Australian aborigine as part of his
next hook, "The Blue of Capricorn" to be published
.soon b\ Houghton Mifflin. Now professor of polit-
ical theory at the University of California with a
Ph.D. in philosopfiy from Oxford, Mr. Burdick
served in the Navy throughout World War 11. His
first story, "Rest Camp on Maui''' appeared in
"Harper's" in 1946.
were studying the ground. Suddenly one of them
shouted, ran a few feet, bent forward and put
his mouth to the ground. He had found a de-
pression with rain water in it. He bent dow-n, a
black cranelike figure, and put his mouth to the
ground.
With a lordly and generous gesture, the discov-
erer stood up and beckoned to the closest of his
fellows. The other trotted over and swooped at
the tiny puddle. In an instant he had sucked it
dry.
The aborigine lives on the cruelest land I have
ever seen. Which does not mean that it is ugly.
Part of it is, of course. There are thousands of
square miles of salt pan which are hideous. They
are huge areas which have been sw^ept by winds
for so many centuries that there is no soil left,
but only deep bare ridges fifty or sixty yards apart
with ravines between them thirty or forty feet
deep and the only thing that moves is a scuttling
layer of sand. Such stretches have an inhuman
moonlike quality. But much of the land which
the aborigine wanclers loofis as if it should be
hospitable. It is softened by the saltbush and the
bluebush, has a peaceful quality, the hills roll
softly.
The malignancy of such a landscape has been
beautifully described by the Australian Charles
Bean. He tells of three men who started out on
a trip across a single paddock, a ten-by-ten-mile
square owned by a sheep grazer. They went well-
equipped with everything except knowledge of
the "outback" country.
The countryside looked like a beautiful open
park with gentle slopes and soft gray tree-clumps.
Nothing appalling or horrible rushed upon these
men. Only there happened— nothing. There might
have been a pool of cool water behind any of these
tree-clumps: only— there was not. It might have
rained, any time; only— it did not. There might
have been a fence or a house just over the next
rise; only— there was not. They lay, with the birds
hopping from branch to branch above them and
the bright sky peeping down at them. No one
came.
The white men died. And countless others like
them have died. Even today range riders will
come upon mummified bodies of men who at-
tempted nothing more difficult than a twenty-
mile hike and slowly lost direction, were tortured
by the heat, driven mad by the constant and
unfulfilled promise of the landscape, and who
finally died.
The aborigine is not deceived; he knows that
the land is hard and pitiless. He knows that the
economy of life in the "outback" is awful. There
is no room for error or waste. Any organism that
^^
i
BY EUGENE BURDICK
71
falters or misperceives the signals or weakens is
done. I do not know if such a way of life can
come to be a self-conscious challenge, but I sus-
pect that it can. Perhaps this is what gives the
aborigine his odd air of dignity.
THE FAMILY
AT THE BOULDER
SEEING an aborigine today is a difficult
thing. Many of them have drifted into the
cities and towns and seaports. Others are con-
fined to vast reservations, and not only does the
Australian government justifiably not wish them
to be viewed as exhibits in a /oo, but on their
reservations they are extremely fugitive, shun-
ning camps, coming together only for corroborees
at which their strange culture comes to its highest
pitch— which is very low indeed.
I persuaded an AustraHan friend who had
lived "outback" for years to take me to see some
aborigines living in the bush. It was a difficult
and ambiguous kind of negotiation, even though
the rancher was said to be expert in his knowl-
edge of the aborigines and their language. Fi-
nally, however, the arrangements were made and
u'e drove out into the bush in a Land Rover. We
followed the asphalt road for a few miles and
then swung off onto a smaller road which was
nothing more than two tire marks on the earth.
The rancher went a mile down this road and
then, when he reached a big red boulder, swung
off the road. At once he started to glance toward
the instrument panel. It took me a moment to
realize what was odd about that panel: there was
a gimbaled compass welded to it, which rocked
gently back and forth as the Land Rover bounced
about. The rancher was navigating his way
across the flatland.
"Do you always navigate like this?" I asked.
"Damned right," he said. "Once I get out on
the flat I do. Some chaps that know an area well
can make their way by landmarks ... a tree here,
a wash here, a boulder there. But if you don't
know the place like the palm of your hand, you'd
better use a compass and the speedometer. Two
miles northeast, then five miles southwest . . .
that sort of thing. Very simple."
He was right. The landscape kept repeating
itself. I would try to memorize landmarks and
saw in a half-hour that it was hopeless. Finally
we approached the bivouac of the aborigines.
They were camped beside a large column-shaped
boulder: a man, his lubra, and two children. The
sun was not yet high and all of them were in the
small area of shade cast by the boulder.
There was also a dog, a dingo dog. Its ribs
showed, it was a yellow nondescript color, it suf-
fered from a variety of sores, hair had scabbed
off its body in patches. It lay with its head on its
paws and only its eyes moving, watching us care-
fully. It struck me as a very bright and very
malnourished dog. No one patted the dog. It
was not a pet. It was a worker.
"The buggers love shade," the rancher said.
"I suppose because it saves them some loss of
body water. They'll move around that rock all
day, following the shade. During the hottest part
of the day, of course, the sun comes straight down
and there isn't any shade."
We drove close to the boulder, stopped the
Land Rover, and walked over toward the family.
The man was leaning against the rock. He
gazed away from us as we approached. He was
over six feet tall and very thin. His legs were
narrow and very long. Every bone and muscle
in his body showed, but he did not give the ap-
pearance of starving. He had long black hair
and a wispy beard. The ridges over his eyes were
huge and his eyelids were half shut. There was
something about his face that disturbed me and
it took several seconds to realize what. It was
not merely that flies were crawling over his face
but his narrowed eyelids did not blink when the
flies crawled into his eye sockets. A fly would
crawl down the bulging forehead, into the socket
of the eye, walk along the man's lashes and across
the wet surface of the eyeball, and the eye did
not blink. The Australian and I both were wear-
ing insect repellent and were not badly bothered
by insects, but my eyes watered as we stood watch-
ing the aborigine.
I turned to look at the lubra. She remained
squatting on her heels all the time we were there;
like the man, she was entirely naked. Her long
thin arms moved in a slow rhythmical gesture
over the family possessions which were placed in
front of her. There were two rubbing sticks for
making fire, two stones shaped roughly like
knives, a woven-root container which held a few
pounds of dried worms and the dead body of
'some rodent. There was also a long wooden spear
and a woomera, a spear-throwing device which
gives the spear an enormous velocity and high
accuracy. There was also a -boomerang, elabo-
rately carved. Everything was burnished with
sweat and grease so that all of the objects seemed
to have been carved from the same material and
to be ageless.
The two children, both boys, wandered around
the Australian and me for a few moments and
then returned to their work. They squatted on
72
THE ABORIGINE
their heels with their heads bent tar iorward,
their eyes only a lew inches Irom the ground.
They had located the runway ol a colony of ants
and as the ants came out ol the ground, the boys
picked them up, one at a time, and pinched them
dead. The tiny bodies, dropped onto a dry leaf,
made a pile as big as a small apple.
The odor here was more powerful than that
which surrounded the town aborigines. The
smell at first was more surprising than unpleas-
ant. It was also subtly familiar, for it was the
odor of the human body, but multiplied in-
numerable times because of the fact that the
aborigines never bathed. One's impulse is to say
that the smell was a stink and unpleasant. But
that is a cliche and a dishonest one. The smell
is sexual, but so powerfully so that a civilized
nose must deny it.
Their skin was covered with a thin coating of
sweat and dirt which had almost the consistency
of a second skin. They roll at night in ashes to
keep warm and their second skin has a light
dusty cast to it. In spots such as the elbows and
knees the second skin is worn off and I realized
the aborigines were much darker than they ap-
peared; as if the coating of sweat, dirt, and
ashes were a cosmetic. The boys had beautiful
dark eyes and unlike their lather they brushed
constantly at the (Ues and blinked their eyes.
"That smell is something, eh, mate?" the Aus-
tralian asked. "They swear that every person
smells different and every family smells different
from every other. At the corrohorees, when they
get to dancing and sweating, you'll see them
rul)bing up against a man who's supposed to
have a specially good smell. Idje, here," and he
nodded at the man, "is said to have great odor.
The stink is all the same to me, but I really
ill ink they can make one another out blind-
fohled."
"Here, Idje, you fella like tabac?" he said
sharply. Idje still stared over our shoulders at
the horizon. The Australian stopped trying to
talk a pidgin I could understand, and spoke
strange words from deep in his chest. He opened
a package of Players cigarettes and held it to-
ward Idje.
hlje turned and looked at us and for the first
time opened his eyes full. He took a cigarette
carefully from the pack and put it behind his ear.
The rancher still held the package out and Idje
took another cigarette and stripped the paper
from it and stuffed the tobacco into his mouth.
He chewed carefully, his head slightly back. A
drop of tobacco gathered in one corner of his
mouth, he licked it hack wiih a pur))lc tongue.
"Ill swear that chewing tobacco is more in-
toxicating to them than gin," the rancher said.
"Old Idje will make that one cigarette do all day.
Maybe we've loosened him up a bit and he'll
perform. '
He talked rapidly to Idje. Idje looked out at
the horizon and then nodded. He barked some-
thing at the boys, then turned around grinning.
One of them picked up the dead rodent from the
basket. The mother paused from her graceful
languid effortless hand motions, which, I real-
ized, were probably designed to keep flies from
the food basket. The boy trotted to a saltbush
about twenty-five yards away and draped the
rodent over the topmost twig. He trotted back
and he and his brother walked over to a small
bundle which I had not noticed. It was made of
woven roots and contained a dozen small stones.
"That's how they start the boys hunting," the
rancher said. "Each boy collects his own stones
and practices with them over and over. When
the family travels the kids are out in front, like
skirmishers, making sure that nothing gets away
that can be eaten. They'll hit little birds, toads,
snakes, and rabbits, but if they run across some-
thing big they'll freeze and the old man comes
up for the kill. They cut a swath right through
the desert, and a stretch of land which looks
deserted to a white man will yield them ten or
twelve pounds of food . . . roots, bugs, rodents,
anything."
The biggest boy bent over the stones and
selected a handful. He was probably twelve years
old, but his arm was longer than mine, very thin,
with long lean muscles. His first shot, a blue
stone, whistled out of his hand. It missed the
rodent and snapped a twig from the saltbush.
Idje said something in a low angry voice. The
boy nodded. The next shot went so fast that I
could not see the stone, but it hit the rodent's
body with a sharp thud. The boys then alter-
nated and in a few moments each of them was
hitting the rodent with every stone. The rodent's
body dropped from twig to twig, a few drops of
blood hung like glue and drew out into very
long teardrops.
HOW TO SLICE A RODENT
TH E rancher said something to Idje. Idje
called to the boys. The oldest boy ran out
and put the rodent on top of the bush. Then
with a cjuick geometric perfect search he gathered
the stones. He had memorized where each had
fallen and he ran bent far over scooping up each
stone merely by dropping his arm.
J
Photographs by Fritz Goro (Life Magazine) of aborigines in Arnhem Land, Northern Australia
^*?|
^iW-^Tl'
74
THE ABORIGINE
"Idje will throw the boomerang," the rancher
said. "The first throw will just be a warm-up, he
says. It'll come close, but won't touch the ani-
mal."
Idje picked up the boomerang and ran his
hands over it. Something was wrong and he
barked at the woman. She reached into the bag
and took out a small piece of yellow fat. She
handed it to Idje and he rubbed his fingers over
it imtil they were coated and then tossed the bit
of fat back to the woman. Idje rubbed tlie boom-
erang slick.
"He greases it so it will slide out of his fingers
without effort," the rancher said.
Idje reached his arm back and then in a long
flowing gesture, which brought his whole lean
body forward in a great snap of muscle and car-
tilage, he threw the boomerang. It sailed far to
the left, at first just grazing the ground and then
rising to a height of fifteen or twenty feet. At
the point of its greatest height it seemed lo have
almost no speed, but this is an optical illusion.
It turned and began to circle ba(k, droj:)ping
down in a long ellipse. It skimmed over the
body of the rodent, clearing it by pcrha])s an
inch. I realized it was traveling al a great speed
and instinctively ducked. It was knee high when
it was fifteen yards from us, but suddenly it
rose into ihe air. Idje took a single step and
caught it.
"Now he'll throw and hit," the rancher s.u'd.
"They always try to hit on the relurn."
Idje threw again. The boomerang sj)un out,
again seemed to come to a stantlsiill, and then
whirred back. This time it dip]>ed just before
it came to the saltbush, came up savagely and
slashed into the dead rodent, almost tearing the
body in half.
"I'll try to get him to riui down some bigger
game," the rancher said.
He said something to Idje. There was a harsh
exchange of words and I sensed hostility. The
aborigine looked at me with a kind of distant
cold pride. The rancher said something and
Idje's face softened. He nodded his head in ap-
proval. He turned and said something to the
dog, which instantly stiffened, came up off his
haunches and moved a few steps forward. The
aborigine turned and began to run, the dingo a
few yards in front of him, sniffing the giound.
"What did you say to him?" I asked.
"He didn't want to run, but I told him you
were a writer, a storyteller," the rancher said.
"They all have a great respect for storytellers.
Next to a good smell the thing they respect most
is the ability to tell a story or sing a story. Some
of these black boys that everyone thinks are so
stupid have learned to speak in six or seven dif-
ferent aborigine languages so they can tell stories.
Not dialects, mind you, but languages as different
as Spanish and English and French. I've been at
it for twenty years and I can speak just one abo
language."
The rancher obviously respected the aborig-
ines. He pointed at Idje who was diminishing in
size, running straight for the horizon in a beau-
tiful graceful trot. The dog had already disap-
peared.
"Now that looks pretty damned simple, but
it's not," the rancher said. "The abo's real
weapons are his legs and his dingo— if he had to,
he could hunt without his spear. But as Idje
trots along he is watching the ground for signs.
Vvc been out with him, and in a single stretch
of salt flat a half-mile long where I couldn't see
even a mark on the surface he could identify
where a snake had craivled, a frog had hopped.
Once a Land Rover fidl of tourists got lost and
we hired Idje to Track them down. We followed
him in another Land Rover and he jogged along
about fne miles an hour for ten hours. Most of
the lime I couldn't see a thing, but he would
point out where they had backed the vehicle and
started in another direction. When we found
them ihev were out of gas and water and just
starting to get hysterical. Funny thing, though,
they never even offered to pay Idje anything. I
paid him off with tobacco and bully beef."
"How do they keep warm at night?" I asked.
"They build a couple of fires up and sleep
between them, the whole mess of them curled
up into a family ball, ' he said. "Man, wife, and
children all curled up so that you can't tell which
is which. Damnedest thing. By morning they
have, without waking up, all rolled over onto the
warm ashes." He paused a moment and then
went on in a voice that assumed I would dis-
believe him. "Some nights during the winter it
will get down to twenty degrees and even when
they don't have firewood they survive that tem-
perature. Do you know how they do it?"
"Not a clue," I said.
"Neither do I," he said and laughed.
"Where do they get water?" I asked, knowing
that in this area the rainfall was less than five
inches a year.
"During the rainy season they chase the rain
squalls and wherever they find a puddle they
drink it up."
"What about the dry season?" I asked.
"They have explained it to me, but I can never
quite believe it," he said. "First they go to a
ii
BY EUGENE BURDICK
75
'soak,' a depression where water usually gathers
and they dig. What they get if they are lucky is
wet sand and they put this in their mouths and
suck it dry and then spit it out."
"And if they are unlucky?"
"Then they look for shrubs which have water
in their roots and they chew on those. There is
also a kind of frog which bloats itself on water
during the wet season to carry it through the dry.
Finding one of those is like finding a little sack
of water."
"That doesn't seem like much water," I said
dubiously.
"It isn't," he said and then looked at me shyly.
"Look, these are funny people. They have
trained themselves to live on almost no water.
Have you noticed how they conserve their en-
ergy? If you ignore the smell and the dirt it's
really quite beautiful. They developed the
boomerang so that if they miss they don't have
to run after their weapon, it comes sailing back
to them. And look at those kids catching ants . . .
they don't waste energy digging, they wait for
the ants to come out. Did you see his lubra catch
that piece of kidney fat? In her way she is as
graceful as those girls I've seen in Sydney in the
ballet." He stopped, embarrassed at his extrav-
agance. I smiled encouragement.
"Anything that lives, animal or vegetable, they
will eat," he went on. He went on to say that
this included kangaroos, emus, snakes, turtles,
crocodiles, bugs, spiders. They plant nothing,
but they harvest whatever grows. There is even a
form of poisonous yam which they treat by
pounding it on a stone and leaving it for a few
years on top of a rock for the sun and rain to
purify. With an uncanny memory they will re-
turn to a rock which holds a few pounds of yam,
deposited there years before.
We heard the dingo yap, a far clear sound that
carried for miles over the stillness. Then there
was a series of shrill yaps, followed by vague,
mixed sounds of a struggle, and finally a series
of short triumphant barks.
The lubra looked up at the rancher and said
something.
"It's a kangaroo," he said. "A small one she
thinks."
The aborigine grew as he approached— from a
hazy mote, becoming larger and more distinct
with each stride. The dingo came faster. When
Idje reached us, we saw that he had a small
kangaroo in his hands, its neck wrung and its
skin already half torn off. He trotted into the
camp, squatted in front of his lubra. The kanga-
roo was eaten while it was still warm, torn into
bits by forty bloody fingers. The dingo stalked
nimbly at the edge, snapping at bits of blood and
shreds of flesh. The noise they made was eerie.
We left while they were still eating the kang-
aroo. The rancher said something and Idje's
face came up from the tangle of hands, skin,
blood, and sound. His lips were smeared with
blood. The rancher indicated he was leaving the
box of cigarettes for him. For the first time Idje
smiled. He nodded good-by and said something.
Then he slid a bone into his mouth, crunched
down on it.
With bloody grease around his mouth, with his
teeth gnashing a bone, with his fingers tearing
76
THE ABORIGINE
at kangaroo flesh, Idje watched us. Not abjectly,
but keenly, as if we \\ere something to be a\ (jidcd
and rejected. The e)es, clotted occasionally by
flies, stared unflinchingly at us as we climbed into
the Land Rover. The muscles in my neck relaxed
only when I knew that we were out of sight of
those great luiblinking eyes.
WHO IS THE FATHER?
LATER my memory played tricks. I could
remember Idje's magnificent posture, the
glitter of his eyes, the incredibly hard justice of
his life, the awesome tension between life and
death in which he constantly lived. I wanted to
forget the stone-strewn desert and the dazzling
salt pan and convince m\self that only an animal
that was less than human could endure it. I
longed to fall victim to the strange Pacific malady
of calling "childlike" what one does not imder-
stand. I wanted to make Idje a version of Rotis-
seau's "splendid savage" and forget him.
Reality is not that easy. Behind that promise
of rage and understanding and imagination there
is a fulfillment. The life of the aborigine, the
life within his mind and soul, is intricate and
bloody and soaring beyond belief— and little
known to outsiders until lately. For generations
he was so suspicious of whites and strangers that
he would talk to them not at all or only on con-
dition that they not repeat w^hat he said until he,
the aborigine, was dead. Slowly, a few trusted
and diligent whites have gotten behind the deep-
simk eyes and into the mind of the aborigine.
AVhat they have discovered is chilling.
The surface impressions are correct. The abo-
rigines lack agriculture, tools, domesticated ani-
mals, metals, pottery, the ^vheel, numbers,
politics, a tone system, Avriting, and seeds. But
their psychic life is bewilderingly rich.
They have no notion of a supreme deity.
Rather their life is filled -with demons and gods
of a highly individual quality. Many aborigines
have not yet made the association between sexual
intercourse and conception. When a woman
realizes she is pregnant she instantly associates
the condition with something in the immediate
surroundings: a tree, a hill, a cloud, a rock. A
whirlwind, a roiling cloud of dust, is thought
to be especially virile and these women will flee
in terror at the sight of one.
The wife does not decide by herself wlio is the
father of her child. This is done by elaborate
consultation among the men of the family and
the clan. \Vhen tliev decide which rock or wliirl-
wind or hill is responsible, that becomes the
sacred name of the child . . . and is never spoken
audibly. They have developed an elaborate sign
language to comminiicate this name; to speak it
would be to invite disaster. The child is also
given a common name Avhich can be spoken
freely. The sacred name, the inimentionable
name, becomes the Churinga of the child— the
spirit on which he can rely and to which he can
make incantations. It also becomes a physical
object, sometimes as small as a minute stone,
sometimes as large as a spear. But not for women
. . . they are never told their secret name.
The mind and heart of the aborigine howl
with fears, hopes, totems, tabus, compidsions,
injunctions. His beliefs are complicated beyond
the sophisticated religion of civilized man. There
are rites, for example, for giving a man the
capacity to make it rain. T. G. H. Strehlow de-
scribes the rite:
An old man produced a sluirp kangaroo bone.
He stabbed my tliumb with it and pushed the
bone deep beneath the nail . . . the torment was
unbearable. . . . 'When the nail had been loosened,
he took a sharp opossum tooth, forced it into the
Hvfng Hesh through the base of the thumbnail,
and tore the nail off from behind. . . . The men
chanted: "They rip off the nail, they tear off the
nail; blood flows like a river, rushes along like a
river." Then they seized my left hand and removed
the thumbnail in a like manner.
In the ceremony of becoming a man, the penis
of the youth is cut open completely along the
urethral canal. (Strangely, this does not preclude
him from impregnating Avomen.) The final cere-
mony initiating a young man is a trial by fire in
which he must lie down on a fire that is barely
covered by green leaves, and then must squat on
live coals for a half-inintite. Young men and
women toss firebrands back and forth and, in the
process, work tip a sexual excitement which be-
comes unendurable and is consummated in a
wild clashing of bodies.
All of this is accompanied by long, intricate
songs Avhich anthropologists have taken down on
endless pages. Family groups, separated by hun-
dreds of miles, '^vill have identical songs and
performances, reproduced generation after gen-
eration.
None of this is particidarly novel in the history
of man. All cidtures are complicated. But the
Australian aborigine, that poor creature agreed
to be the most simple no^\• in existence, reveals
an awful truth. The life of all of us is compli-
cated, subtle, bloody, fearsome, secret. And
we struggle with an insane energy to make it
invisible to the outsider.
Harper's Magazine, SclAetuber 1961
LEONARD ENGEL
Why we don't wipe out Polio
We could do it-^and get rid of syphilis,
rabies, diphtheria, and some other
diseases — if our public-health officers
were willing to risk a little unpopularity.
WITHIN the current twelve months,
several thousand Americans, both chil-
dren and adults, will be paralyzed by polio. A
hundred thousand or more will contract syphilis.
Some thousands will undergo the grueling Pas-
teur treatment— involving at least seven shots— to
avoid possible rabies (and a half-dozen will ac-
tually die after being bitten by rabid dogs).
This prospect is peculiarly distressing because
we know how to prevent or control all these
diseases; in some cases, we have known for dec-
ades. Their continued power to inflict death
and destruction is due in part to ignorance and
inertia. But the chief factors are lack of money
and official timidity. Too many individual fami-
lies cannot afford to pay private physicians for
immunizations, and too many health depart-
ments have insufficient funds to carry on preven-
tion work on the scale needed.
Furthermore, public-health men are afraid to
tell the public bluntly what all of them know-
that it takes forceful measures, including the
power of the law, to carry out effective programs
to eradicate these diseases.
"Public-health workers," a senior official in
the New York State Health Department said to
me a few weeks ago, "are all trained to be mice.
In almost all health departments and most
schools of public health, the emphasis is on
avoiding controversy." Instead, officials place all
their eggs in the basket called "health educa-
tion" and call for bigger and bigger voluntary
health campaigns. These can accomplish much,
but in a country as large and heterogeneous as
the United States, voluntary efforts cannot be
depended on to eradicate such diseases as polio
in a reasonable length of time.
For example, an oral polio vaccine will be
ready for use in this country within a few
months. Hopes have been high that paralytic
polio will finally be eliminated by the Sabin vac-
cine. It will probably be given in the form of
a cherry-flavored syrup containing at least sev-
eral million live but tame polio viruses per
spoonful. Since it need not be injected, it will
be easier to administer and will doubtless be
accepted by some people who have shied away
from Salk shots. Planning for community-wide
oral vaccine campaigns is already swinging into
high gear. However, unless this effort is backed
up by more stringent measures than have been
employed in polio immunization to date, the
Sabin preparation will accomplish little more
than the Salk vaccine.
For the fact is that the continued occurrence
of paralytic polio is not due to any deficiency
of the Salk vaccine. In terms of effectiveness in
preventing paralysis, the experts say there is lit-
tle to choose between the Sabin and Salk vac-
cines, despite the debate at the recent American
Medical Association convention. Whichever is
used, paralytic polio rarely strikes people who
have been adequately immunized. In Denmark,
for example, where over 93 per cent of the
youngsters under nineteen and 85 per cent of the
adults between twenty and thirty-nine have been
immunized with Salk vaccine, there are now only
ten to sixty-five polio cases a year.
In the United States, on the other hand, we
have not been able to persuade enough persons
of polio-susceptible ages to accept vaccination to
bring polio under real control. Unhappily, a
sizable segment of our population does not read
newspapers or look at TV. Others read and are
indifferent, and some have too little education
for understanding. A considerable number have
been kept away by the difficulty of obtaining
polio shots in many parts of the country without
paying a physician's fee. At any rate, we still
have two to six thousand cases of paralytic polio
a year because we still have nearly thirty million
78
WHY WE DON'T WIPE OUT POLIO
children and young adults who have had no
polio shots (and over ten million who have had
only one or two of the required three). More-
over, the unimmunized and underimmunized
forty million are not distributed uniformly
throughout our population. This is why ex-
plosive outbreaks have occurred, for instance,
in Chicago and Detroit in recent years.
Paralytic polio will still be with us, despite
the Sabin vaccine, if we don't find a way to bring
in the missing millions.
Actually, the problem is not difficult to solve.
We could do it by providing free polio shots for
all who cannot pay and then making immuniza-
tion against polio compulsory. An imaginative
public-health worker recently suggested another
device that avoids outright compulsion. We
could put the burden of not being immunized
on the individual by requiring immunization of
all children and young adults unless a parent or
the individual himself (if over twenty-one) ob-
jects in writing. Such an arrangement would
quickly reduce to negligible proportions the
number of unimmunized susceptibles, and virtu-
ally end paralytic polio without offending the
few who really object to immunization.
MAD DOGS AND VD
OF COURSE, a program of this kind is
easier to suggest than to put into effect. But
a vigorous new approach to many of our public-
health problems is long overdue. In addition to
polio, thousands of other illnesses, and many
deaths each year are caused by infectious diseases
which could have been reduced to insignificance
or wiped out if measures for controlling them
had been backed by the power of law.
Thus, tetanus (lockjaw) still causes several
hundred deaths each year though tetanus vac-
cines have been familiar for decades. Almost
all these fatalities could be prevented by com-
pulsory immunization of all children— the chief
victims of tetanus— plus free clinics to carry the
immunization out.
We also have hundreds of cases and several
score deaths each year from diphtheria, though
we have not only anti-diphtheria vaccines but a
simple test for picking out individuals suscep-
tible to the disease. Hardly any cases of diph-
theria would occur if we had laws requiring
testing and immunization at suitable intervals in
areas where the disease has been occurring.
We still have rabies. In 1959 (the last year
for which figures are available), more than a
thousand cases occurred in dogs, and seven, all
fatal, in human beings. This is in addition to
the thousands of persons compelled to undergo
the Pasteur treatment for suspected rabies.
Shortly after the turn of the century, rabies
was completely eradicated from Great Britain by
strict enforcement of dog-muzzling laws and de-
struction of strays. This eliminated the rabies
virus from the British dog population; a law re-
quiring six months' quarantine of all dogs im-
ported into the United Kingdom has kept
Britain free of rabies ever since. The U. S. can-
not be completely cleared of rabies, as Britain
was, because skunks, raccoons, foxes, bats, and
other wild animals harbor the disease. (Curi-
ously, cats are no rabies problem because dogs
and other animals seldom get a good bite of a
cat— which tells you who wins most fights be-
tween dogs and cats.) Even in the U. S., however,
dogs are the chief means of transmission to man.
We could make the risk of human rabies very
small by eliminating rabies in dogs. And we
have a much more convenient means of doing
that than the British had— the recently developed
Flury vaccine, which is unsuited to use in man,
but which a dozen years of experience have
proved safe and highly effective in dogs. How-
ever, not a single state in the union— not even
those in which rabies is a frequent problem-
requires immunization of its dog population.
Such measures have been vigorously opposed by
"animal lovers" who seem to forget that their
cherished pets will be the first victims of rabies.
Though there are also well-established tech-
niques for its control, we are currently experi-
encing a runaway rise in syphilis. In 1957, an
estimated thirty thousand new cases occurred in
the U. S. In 1961, venereal disease experts pre-
dict, the total will be more than three times as
great. Since there is no vaccine for preventing
it, the control of syphilis is based on tracing the
source of infection. Physicians almost everywhere
are required to report to health departments on
a confidential basis the names of patients with
infectious syphilis. Health department workers
then question the patient to obtain the names
of sexual partners for treatment and further con-
tact tracing. The procedure is laborious but it
can control outbreaks of syphilis— when health
Leonard EngeVs article on the Salk vaccine
in "Harper s^' just six years ago analyzed definitively
the public confusion which hampered the launching
of the campaign to end polio. Mr. Engel is the
author of "The Operation" and "Medicine Makers
of Kalamazoo" as well as of a new book, "The Sea"
— the first volume in the Life Nature Library.
BY LEONARD ENGEL
79
departments are adequately staffed and physi-
cians report the names of patients as the law
requires.
Doctors, however, report only a small percent-
age of the syphilis cases they see— as few as one
in ten, some VD authorities say. Some physicians
ignore the reporting laws to avoid embarrassing
their private patients. Others carelessly assume
(like niurh of the general public) that penicillin
has ended the syphilis threat.
It will take a major effort to bring syphilis
back under control. As immediate steps, VD
specialists advocate an increase in the funds and
public-healih manpower assigned to tracing con-
ta(is. In addition, a law is needed requiring
blood-testing laboratories to report the names of
patients who test positive for syphilis. Since
thcie are far fewer laboratories than physicians,
siicii a law would be easy to police and would
arm health authorities with the information in-
dispensible to an effective campaign against syph-
ilis.
Such a law was enacted in Pennsylvania in
105S. It produced a prompt, sustained rise in the
reporting of all types of syphilis, including the
infectious forms that are all-important to com-
munity health. Armed with this information,
Pennsylvania health authorities can take prompt
action against outbreaks of the disease. In no
other state do health workers have the informa-
tion needed to fight what remains one of the
most destructive afflictions known to man.
These are only a few of the ailments which
coidd be substantially controlled by sustained
efforts and suitable laws. What, then, is holding
us back?
KICKING UP A FUSS
FO R the past several decades, public-health
officials have been extremely reluctant to
press for mandatory health legislation. This at-
titude is evident even in recent campaigns for
fluoridation of drinking water to prevent dental
caries. All such efforts have been made on
the local level, and none have been aimed at
getting state legislation. The U. S. Public
Health Service has taken the odd position of
endorsing fluoridation but refusing to advocate
legislation to put it into effect. "The Public
Health Service," said a spokesman, "never ad-
vocates legislation except in such spheres as
securing funds and facilities and the like."
Health officers defend their unwillingness to
seek disease-control laws by pointing out that
compulsion is against U. S. traditions and that
great progress has been made by voluntary
means. But this is hardly the whole story, for
health officers have not always been so diffident
about obtaining the backing of the law. Federal,
state, and local statute books contain thousands
of public-health regulations dating back to
World War I and before. Federal health
officers can shut clown interstate transportation
to halt the spread of epidemics. Though they
ha\'e never invoked this power, they make daily
use of another— the power to compel vaccination
of anyone (whether citizen or alien) entering the
country from areas with diseases like smallpox
and yellow fever. (It's this that keeps the U. S.
free of smallpox despite the fact that smallpox
vaccination is not legally required in most states.)
Mandatory laws are also relied on to keep restau-
rants and food stores clean; to compel barber
shops and beauty parlors to sterilize brushes,
combs, and razors; to assure the safety of drugs;
and to safeguard the public health in scores of
other ways. Without public-health ordinances,
we'd be back in the nineteenth century.
A New York State Health Department officer
I talked to offered a plausible explanation. "Un-
fortunately, it's not possible to call for com-
pulsory health measures applicable to the general
public," he said, "without raising a row— as wit-
ness the fluoridation fuss. In recent years, we've
all been taught to avoid controversy at almost
any cost. So most of us just keep our mouths
shut even when we know that present approaches
are not doing the job and that by keeping quiet
we are not discharging our responsibilities."
There can be no doubt that proposals for
stronger health measures to be applied to the
public as a whole will stir opposition. Com-
pulsory immunization programs are certain to
be attacked as "socialism." And proposals ema-
nating from the Public Health Service will be
denounced in the hoary name of state rights,
especially in those states with the worst health
records and most in need of stronger programs.
Hopefully it may not be necessary to resort to
outright compulsion to bring communicable
diseases under proper control. We may merely
need to make sure that we reach all the people
who have no real objection to immunization, but
who need prodding. However, even if compulsory
universal immunization should prove necessary,
no individual rights would be violated. For no
one has an inherent right to refuse medical treat-
ment designed to prevent the spread of infectious
disease. Such a right would be tantamount to
the right to injure others— a right no one can
claim. Compulsory immunization laws abridge
80
DENISE LEVERTOV
THE THREAD
SOMETHING is verv gently,
invisibly, silently,
pulling at me— a thread
or net of threads
finer than cobA\eb and as
elastic. I haven't tried
the strength of it. No barbed hook
pierced and tore me. Was it
not long ago this thread
began to draw me? Or
way back? Was I
born with its knot about my
neck, a bridle? Not fear
but a stirring
of wonder makes me
catch my breath when I feel
the tug of it when I thought
it had loosened itself and gone.
In suggesting that we must invoke the power
of the law or some comparable pressure if we
mean business about eradicating polio, I do not
mean to imply that efforts at voluntary immuni-
zation and health education should be aban-
doned. On the contrary. Public-health experts
are right when they say that compulsory health
measures are bound to fail if unaccompanied by
preparatory health education; experience with
compulsory laws in the past has clearly demon-
strated this. But there is a limit beyond which
purely vohmtary measures cannot go within a
reasonable length of time in a country as large
and diverse as this one. Advocates of a purely
voluntary approach point to the highly success-
ful antipolio campaign in Denmark; but Den-
mark is small, homogeneous, and highly literate;
and polio immunization— like all medical care in
Denmark— is free. If the new oral polio vaccine
is to achieve its full potential, its use will have to
be backed up by more than leaflets from March-
ing Mothers. A conjbination of measures, volun-
tary and backed-by-law, is needed.
no valid individual right, such as freedom of
conscience or speech. They serve merely to pro-
tect the lives and health of members of the com-
munity, just as highway traffic laws do. As the
U. S. Supreme Court ruled in 1905 and again in
1922 when religious sects challenged state laws
requiring vaccination of school children against
smallpox, compulsory immunization against con-
tagious disease is simply an exercise of the or-
dinary and proper police power of the state.
We can similarly ignore the cries of socialism
and state rights if expanded immunization
clinics and federal health measures are estab-
lished. Political and economic conservatives,
both medical and lay, have fought every progres-
sive reform in medicine and public safety during
the past two generations, every attempt by the
federal government to introduce minimum stand-
ards, whether in health or wages or highway
building. Neither the republic nor the doctors
have been harmed when such opposition was dis-
regarded in the past. In fact, the nation and the
medical profession have been visibly benefited.
Let us recall, moreover, that when we act to
eradicate communicable disease, we aa or be-
half of a major segment of our population un-
able to speak for itself. The first victims of polio
and of many other communicable diseases are
children.
SHALL THE FIRST BE LAST.''
AS A matter of fact, such programs have al-
ready been carried out in several countries.
During the past three years, five Iron Curtain
countries— the U. S. S. R., Czechoslovakia, Po-
land, Hungary, and East Germany— have carried
out extensive immunization programs chiefly
with the Sabin vaccine. (The latter was chosen
in preference to the Salk vaccine because of
greater ease of administration.) All programs
were voluntary in the sense that parents could
refuse to have their children immunized. But
all the programs were backed up by official in-
structions to physicians to see to it that all chil-
dren in their districts were immunized, and by
various other kinds of official pressure. As a re-
sult, over 90 per cent of children in the selected
age groups have been immunized.
It is too soon to gauge the effect of these
massive programs on polio incidence. But experts
believe immunization of 90 per cent of a sus-
ceptible population is enough to break the chain
of polio infection and bring the disease under
tight control. Thus several of these countries
have reached a result we have yet to attain by
a much longer and more costly effort. They are
in a position— as we are not— to look forward to
a virtual end to paralytic polio. It would be
ironic indeed if they achieved this goal before
the nation that developed both the Salk and
Sabin vaccines.
Harper's Magazine, September 1961
FRED BODSWORTH
Canada^ s Luxury
Ghost Town
A bachivoods sawmill town is recuperating — from
a uranium boom, and an influx of starry-eyed
social planners and hell-raising miners.
THROUGH two hundred miles of rock-
ribbed forest in Ontario, Highway 17 winds
westward from Sudbury— a nickel-mining city—
to the canal town, Sault Ste. Marie. Halfway
between, on the island-studded northern shore of
Lake Huron, is a little sawmill town— Blind
Ri\cr. For many years it was the major settle-
ment in this expanse of wilderness but few
Canadians were aware of its existence save for a
handfid of sportsmen attracted bv the excellent
trout fishing and deer hunting.
\\'ith no such athletic incentive, I stopped off
there a short time ago. I was curious about how
this long-somnolent outpost was doing in the
wake of a recent bout of progress in the form of
sudden industrialization and sophisticated so-
cial planning.
The twentieth centiuy roared into Blind
River less than a decade ago. Until then its
2,500 inhabitants had stagnated— not too un-
happily—in a threadbare frontier society. There
was only one major employer, the McFadden
Lumber Mill, which drew pine logs from the
forest that stretches five hundred miles north to
Hudson Bav. In \vinter, when the mill was shut,
men found jobs inland in liunber camps— most
of them, it was said, had been here so long they
couldn't Avork without the smell of sawdust in
their nostrils.
During the depression, the mill closed doAvn
for several years, tax collections dwindled, and
the town went bankrupt. In 1935 the Province's
Department of Municipal Affairs stepped in and
placed the town's affairs under a kind of gov-
ernment receivership, which continued even
after the mill reopened. The chamber of com-
merce tried to attract other industries— but with-
out success. So Main Street deteriorated to a
drab facade of unpainted store fronts and many
homes were sagging, tar-paper-covered shacks.
To the visitor in those days, the place looked
bleak; but one could live reasonably well on a
loAv wage.
Then— during the spring of 1953— high-booted,
tight-lipped strangers began to fill up the town's
four hotels. Clothing merchants did a booming
business in sleeping bags and bush clothes.
Planes came and went mysteriously, landing on
the river, loading up supplies, then disappearing
northward. The strangers answered queries ^\•hh.
shrugs and vague comments abotit going fishing.
But by summer the secret was out. These were
prospectors, diamond drillers, and promoters. A
large deposit of uranium— glamour ore of the
dawning atoinic age— had been found nearby
and more than a thousand claims had been se-
cretly staked.
A year later, diamond drilling and Geiger
coimters had revealed not one but several rich
ore bodies. Eight hundred square miles of virgin
forest were dotted Avith camps; grouse and
wolves fled the menacing rumble of air com-
pressors and bulldozers. Soon head-frames rose
over future mine sites and a road was slashed
through thirty miles of precipices and quaking
swampland.
In Blind River, merchants spruced up their
faded store fronts and home o^vners feverishly
remodeled dwellings to meet the brisk demand
for rooms and apartments. Rimior had it that
the town must prepare for a tenfold increase in
population; a New York magnate was said to be
negotiating the purchase of foiu- hundred build-
ing lots in Blind River for new miners' homes.
Clearly, a boom was on the way. This was in-
deed the case; but the shape and nature of the
boom proved, in inany ways, smprising.
The principal mines, it tinned oiu, would be
thirty or forty miles from Blind River— a con-
siderable commuting distance. In addition, min-
ing company and government planners who
looked over this rude little hamlet decided that
it could not possibly absorb the anticipated
population growth. To cnsine a stable labor
force and sustained production, an entireh new
community must be built.
To social scientists the prospect was exhilarat-
' .■<■
Mary Cable on Blenheim Palace— monument to the first
Duke of Marlborough and to the thrift of his Duchess.
MAKI\(; s<).\H rui.v,
m:\\' oi tr ADirioN
you enjoy
beauty,
brains,
and a bargain-
here is
a rare chance
to acquire
Hoi\izoi!
Of the works and ways of architect K«nzo Tange, who
might be the real-life hero of "Hiroshima Hon Amour."
)ii
21
(!
n
^S^^kJU^HMlM .^
1M§"' '
' ~r^ ;
- .-r-
Sicily — its conquerors, cathedrals,
poets, martyrs, Mafia— a history by
Moses Finley and D. Mack Smith.
Masterpieces of the 12th-century sculptor Gislebertns
—and how art detectives rescued them from obscurity.
ler
^
Carol Burnett — brilliant, toothsome younj? comedi-
enne of TV and theater - profiled by Richard Boeth.
A leisurely visit with artist Andrew Wycth (see cover
picture), featuring an 8-page folio of his paintings.
1 1-: CAKu msertea in these pages is a seldom-seen invitation
I you to try six issues of a thoroughly « on-utilitarian
■ ine (and to get all six at $10 below their retail price) :
magazine is strikingly beautiful — and expensive as
, Kings go. It asks you to use your head, your eyes, and
•ducation — for the fun of it. (There is no editorial effort
se incomes or souffles, children or bridge scores.)
can engage your mind and delight your eye, lead you
strange galleries and into ancient caves, jog your imagi-
1, show you the sights of cities long dead, put you in front
•es and easels and thoughts as fresh as this morning.
Some Peculiarities —
ON is peculiar among magazines in several ways. It comes
d-embossed, hard covers, and resembles the costliest of
ated books. It carries no advertising at all. Its articles
ictures tend to be ?(ntimely. Each issue adds to a per-
tly valuable collection of arts and ideas.
if this glimpse of Horizon stirs your curiosity — see if
^n't a good time to try it. (We have not advertised the
I'.ine for eight months, aren't doing it widely now, won't
for some time. And the offer here is both temporary and
st we have.)
of Aims, and Art,
ON explores the whole of culture, past and present. It
st, a magazine of the arts — all the arts: fine, liberal,
y and lively. Take the September issue, shown below :
ranges in time and place from the neglected 12th-century
ure of Gislebertus to the TV antics of Carol Burnett;
aixhitoct Kenzo Tange of Hiroshima to painter Andrew
I of Chadds Ford, Pa. It deals with master pianist Ru-
erkin; with Beat vs. academic schools of poetry; with
eim Palace and some lesser memorials — including Ed-
Sorel's devastating caricatures of Jack Paar, Senator
ater, and other notables.
ich Horizon contains fifteen or more articles and fea-
tures, all edited for the intelligent general reader, not the
specialist. (Typical contributors: Garrett Mattingly, Santha
Rama Rau, James Michener, Arnold Toynbee, Walter Kerr.)
and Illustration, and Ideas.
Fine pictures abound. Nearly every page (at least 128 per
issue) is enriched with paintings or photographs, art objects,
cartoons or archeological finds ... all superbly reproduced,
many in full color. (Three printing methods are employed.)
Since culture embraces the world of ideas. Horizon is also
interested in religion and philosophy, manners and mores.
In September, Douglass Cater draws a cultural profile of the
Kennedy administration — where politics and poetry sometimes
meet. Jean-Louis Barrault talks of the impact of Shakespeare
on the French.
And there is much history — to wit, an evocative journey
through 3,000 years of Sicilian civilization (with 27 illustra-
tions). For Horizon is, in sum, a continuing report on the cul-
ture of our time, and a bridge to the civilizations of the past.
About the Matter of $10 Off
In the unlikely event that you were to buy each of the next six
issues of Horizon as they appear, you would spend $27. (They
are $4.50 apiece, an astounding price — until you've seen one.)
An annual subscription delivers six boxed issues, one every
other month, for $21. But just now, our postpaid form will bring
you an introductory year of Horizon for about $10 under the
single-copy price, $4 under the annual rate: oyily $16.95.
Look through your first issue before you pay a cent. Then
you'll be billed over four months — $1.95 to begin, $5 a month
for the next three — with the right to cancel at any time with-
out penalty. The lower price lasts only as long as our supply of
the September Horizon. And that won't be long. Good idea to
mail the form today. (If form is gone, write to Horizon,
Subscription Office, 379 W. Center St., Marion, Ohio.)
fj
Shown here much smaller than its full size, Horizon is a
big (9V4" X 12'A", 128 or more pages), bi-monthly maga-
zine in book form — hard covers, no advertisements. Tem-
porarily you may try a year's subscription at about $10
less than the price of the same six issues if bought sepa-
rately—via the postpaid form stapled between these pages
»*mmmkmmSiSSimMS0lmmmmiiim
Who discovers scientists in sneakers?
Somewhere among today's teenagers are tomor-
row's scientists. But how do we find them?
Listen to the cynics talk of softness, stupidity
and worse in our youngsters, and you give up.
But the fact is, we're growing them smarter every
year. If many of our teenagers don't know how to
use the brains they were born with, it's because
we have failed to challenge and excite them.
This is a responsibility we all share. Olin,
concerned with the bright high school student j
who never comes close to his potential, offered I
to support a unique educational experiment in :
one of its plant communities. J
The plan was worked out with the school I
board. An exceptionally talented Chemistry '
teacher was brought to Monroe, Louisiana. From J
this average high school population, he chosel
thirtV Studenfs .-inH nnf <}-ir>r-n (liioiicrli -i Ir^mrh '
)II1
^Tr^
ut exciting course in college-level Chemistry.
It was like watching the stars come out. One
;udent lit up, then another and another. They
ugged away at complex Chemistry textbooks,
'hey lost themselves in fascinating laboratory
xperiments. They felt the thrill of growth. Some
iid, "I've just begun to learn
ow to study." "We had been
olishing our bricks and dull-
ig our diamonds," said the
luperintendent of Schools.
Other teachers saw what
ould be done, started giving more to their stu-
ents and demanding more from them. Sud-
enly there was a new hero on campus: The
5rain.
Another thirty took the course next year. Now
ifty-five of those sixty are planning careers in
the sciences. Leading colleges and universities
have flung open their doors to them. So far,
they've earned over $80,000 in scholarships.
Other outstanding teachers were found. The
plan was extended from Chemistry to Physics,
from Monroe to five other Olin plant communi-
ties. Everywhere the plan has
gone, the excitement has fol-
lowed: students growing, learn-
ing how to think, setting their
goals higher.
Nearly four hundred stu-
dents have already participated in the plan. Not
four hundred Einsteins, but four hundred bright
kids whose natural drive to learn has been given
a chance to flourish. It's the best answer we know
to the weepers and wallers, and Olin has no
patent on the idea.
lin
f ftlflOStOf He calls himself a manager. And he can back his claim with the title on
the door and his M.B.A. diploma on the wall. Ask him about mark-ups, inventories or profits,
and he'll fire back facts and figures fast. But ask him more. Question him about sit-ins, dis-
armament, corporations' responsibilities to society, the wide and rapidly-moving world in
which he lives. He'll argue, "That's not in my job description." But isn't it, really? Mustn't a
business manager, worthy of the title, possess more than good business skills? Can he forget
the fact that he and his firm are, after all, only in business to satisfy human needs? If so,
isn't a manager who forgets man an impostor?
P.S. At our soon-to-be opened Management Center, Nationwide
executives will sharpen their professional administrative abilities
and take part in "mind-stretching" seminars on social, political
and ethical topics, through this program we hope to help our
managers grow toward a blend of outstanding business perform-
ance plus an increased awareness of human and social values.
America's most fiipgmsive insurance organization
ATIONWIDE
Nationwide Mutual Ins. Co. /Nationwide Mutual Fire Int. Co. / Nationwide Life Ini. Co / home office: Columbut 16, 0
BY FRED BODSWORTH
91
For instance, Joe Briere, a $1.26-an-hour mill
hand with a family, was renting a two-room base-
ment apartment. One morning a miner stopped
him on the sidewalk in front of the house and
asked: "Do you have an apartment in that
house?" Briere said he did. "What are you pay-
ing for it?" His rent was $37.50 a month, Briere
said. The miner walked up to the door, offered
the landlord S75 for the apartment, and Briere
was told on the spot that he would have to
match the miner's offer or move out. Briere
moved.
Many other families were forced out of homes
they had rented for years. Some doubled up or
sent their families to relatives out of town. El-
derly pensioners were crowded into St. Joseph's
Villa, Blind River's home for the aged, or sent
to institutions in Sault Ste. Marie.
Shacks without electricity, water, or plumbing,
worthless before the boom, brought |50 a month
from tenants who carried their own water in
pails and used outside privies. One couple paid
$35 a month to live in a windowless garage that
had no water or facilities of any kind. At one
time nearly 150 trailers were crowded into back
yards and vacant lots, adding to the burden on
schools, water, and sewage systems, without con-
tributing to the town's income from taxes.
Long a classless town cemented by seventy
years of intermarrying and co-operative struggle
against frontier adversity. Blind River was now
split three ways. The newcomers— miners and
construction workers— agitated for town improve-
ments. A small group of prospering hotel keep-
ers, businessmen, and landlords agreed. Most of
the original residents, however, were bewildered,
suspicious, and resentful— and still low-paid saw-
mill hands. The new residents and their prosper-
ous local allies, clamored for better policing,
schools, improvements to streets, sewers, and ex-
tensions of the water system. Old-timers, dis-
trustful of the boom, argued that the mines' sales
contracts ran only for five years. What would
liappen after that?
The newcomers jibed at "the five-year pho-
bia." The government and mining companies
were investing $500 million in the area— and
surely that was proof, they argued, that the
boom was here to stay.
The old-timers were able to keep a tight grip
on municipal spending until 1957. Then in a
subdivision of forty-two new homes built by a
mining company, sewage began backing up
drains into basements and soaking upward to
ground level. The angry tenants demanded
sewers to replace their inadequate septic tanks.
The town borrowed $50,000, put in the sewers,
and lifted the lid on other improvements— prin-
cipally two new schools and a new water system.
By 1959 the capital debt was up to $750,000.
And then the bubble burst.
WAITING FOR REVIVAL
SUDDENLY the world, and especially the
United States, found it had more uranium
than it knew what to do with. The U. S. Atomic
Energ)' Commission, ultimate market for most
of the Blind River area's uranium, announced
it wouldn't need any more after purchase con-
tracts expire in 1962.
At Elliot Lake— the costliest, most elaborate
mining camp ever built— the effect was cataclys-
mic. The mines began cutting production; by
mid- 1961 eight out of twelve had closed. By
pooling uranium orders and stretching out de-
liveries, two of the surviving four mines will
be able to remain in production until 1963 and
the final two until 1966. Meanwhile, fabulous
Elliot Lake is fast becoming the world's most
luxurious ghost town. Its population has
slumped from 25,000 to 11,000, and 3,000 more
are scheduled to leave before winter. Hundreds
of its houses, some of them lived in less than
two years, are now boarded up and empty; the
paint is already peeling from their beveled
siding, frost is cracking their plaster. It is hoped
that new uranium orders after 1966, possibly
British orders now under negotiation, will keep
at least the last two mines in production and
that Elliot Lake will retain a population of five
to seven thousand until some time in the 1970s
when it is expected that industrial needs for
uranium will bring a revival.
And thirty-five miles away. Blind River is
sadder and wiser. The bootleggers, prostitutes,
and weekend carousers are gone. Life is rela-
tively quiet— but it is no longer cheap. Rents
are three or four times what they were in 1953.
Taxes have more than tripled.
From a peak of 5,000 Blind River's population
has dropped back to 4,000, and about a quarter
of this population is without income because
250 family heads are unemployed. Seventy-five
per cent of the unemployed are laicl-ofT miners
staying in Blind River because they have no-
where else to go, a number of them burdened
with new homes they cannot sell and cannot pay
for.
"It was quite a boom," says ex-Mayor Menard.
"I hope we don't have another for a while. It
will take us a long time to pay for the last one."
Harper's Magazine, September 1961
PUBLIC 8c PERSONAL
mm
- ;:*• ■
■| ffl| .T F* ' " ^
5 • f
r i
1 1 "
n^^^^^ r fl
WILLIAM S. WHITE
/4 new terseness and formality in
manners — and a shift in political bal-
ance— may partly account for the
peaceable Kennedy Cabinet . . . so far.
WASHINGTON-Around a
long, oval, worn-looking table they
sit, the men of State, of Treasury,
of Defense, of Justice, of Agriculture,
of Interior, of Labor, of Health, Ed-
ucation, and Welfare, of the Post
Office, of Commerce.
These ten men reflect three maps
of this nation, three ways of look-
ing at the United States. First,
there is a certain rough geographic
balance among them. Second, there
is a rough balance of "conservatism"
and "liberalism." Finally, there is
a precise and realistic and deliber-
ate imbalance, of the urban over the
rural, of the new society over the
old.
This Presidential Cabinet for the
first time in history is very nearly
controlled, intellectually, by the
erstwhile have-not classes— economi-
cally and socially— who have become
the newly dominant classes in Amer-
ican public life. For this is the most
urbanized Cabinet we have known.
The Cabinet with the highest rep-
resentation of so-called minority
groups (two Jews and one Catholic),
it is also the Cabinet with the least
flavor of the rural mystique which
has been significant heretofore in
Twelve at the Table
every Cabinet since Washington's. *
And if it is the Cabinet with the
greatest participation of the minori-
ties, it is also a Cabinet in which
the tenement as birthplace has suc-
ceeded the farmhouse in the folklore
of success; and the university has
succeeded corporation and bank and
eminent law firm as a source of
Cabinet material and philosophy.
The eleventh man at this table in
this White House room. Vice Presi-
dent Lyndon B. Johnson of Texas,
is the nearest thing to the old coun-
try-boy stereotype; and he himself
surely is not lacking in sophistica-
tion. The twelfth man, who sits at
the top of the table, is the man who
usually says the least. But this man,
John F. Kennedy of Massachusetts,
says it last.
Eight months have passed since
this Cabinet first took their seats;
seats assigned to them by the Pres-
ident with some regard to section-
alism and tradition but with final,
special regard to those forces (North-
ern big-city and Southern Brass Col-
lar Democratic) which elected him.
How effectively has the mechanism
worked in this two-thirds of a year?
And, more to the point, what is this
Cabinet really like, and how does
it function? I propose to offer some
answers here, not in a furtive "in-
sider's" whisper, as though I myself
had crept in behind the wall to
watch. No reporters, staff, or visi-
tors are ever present, but still, 1 be-
lieve, I have adequate information,
from others who ought to kno'
As to the first point, effectiveiu
of work, these are my findings: Tli,
Cabinet is more businesslike but alfj
less solemn than that of Preside
Eisenhower; more friendly but ;il
less informal in certain ways. A
Kennedy, for illustration, calls i
member by his first name in the
meetings, though he does so c
some of them on other occasioi 1
The Secretary of State, Dean Rus!
is either "The Secretary of Stat
or "Mr. Rusk." To this Preside
there is no "Dean" as to Preside
Eisenhower there was a "Foster," f
John Foster Dulles.
This Cabinet is not dominated 1
a single personality, as George Hui
phrey of Treasury or Dulles of Sta
alternately dominated Eisenhower
or, for that matter, as Cordell Hi
sometimes bestrode the Roosev(
Cabinet, morally at least. Nor do
this Cabinet show— at least at tl
time of writing— a single authen
cated case of that mordant backb
ing, involving such personalities
Harold Ickes of Interior, which wi
characteristic of the Roosevelt Caj
inet. The Kennedy Cabinet men
bers uniformly get along well t
gether, or seem to. There is no ru
ning to the Boss with tales agaii
so-and-so. Ironically, these fello^
are far more a "team" than tl
Eisenhower Cabinet; and infinite
more than any Roosevelt Cabinet
A PECULIAR Ml
ALL this does not mean that Kc
nedy has selected the finest panel
ministers in history. It does me*
that thus far at least, his experime,
of mixing some most oddly dispara'
types has paid off. Arthur Goldbe
of Illinois, the former CIO lawy<
gets along especially well with Ly
don Johnson and Luther Hodges
North Carolina, the Secretary
Commerce. This is not becau,
Goldberg grew up in very poor hoi I
ing in Chicago, nor in spite of th
fact. Perhaps it is because Goldbe
as Secretary of Labor has strong
impressed these two Southerners
such different personal traditio
that he is a man, however wrong 1
ideas may be or have been, who L
lieves in responsibility in public f
fice. Attorney Goldberg now has
new client; it is not now the (-I*
it is the United States of Anieric
The success of the blend is ev(
better illustrated in the case of a
thcr big-city boy who grew up far
Ifway from the manners and customs
E, say, Dean Rusk of Georgia. Abe
ibicoff of Connecticut and HEW
exactly what Dean Rusk, profes-
onally, is not: a first-rate profes-
onal politician. He is now getting
long notably well with Rusk— a for-
gn-policy and foundation-executive
pe who nevertheless is aware from
ast service in the State Department
lat knowing just where Katanga is
no substitute for knowing how to
et the delegation from Kentucky to
ote right on Foreign Aid in the
louse of Representatives.
H E curious fact is that while
lere are no ideological bloc-lines
rawn up within the Cabinet, there
as been a polite gathering of two
eneral views of life which might
►e called "conservative" and "lib-
ra!."
The "conservatives"— and the term
suggested by their general pru-
ence and concern for tradition
ather than by any specific issue-
re Douglas Dillon of New York,
Vail Street, and Treasury; Robert
K McNamara of Michigan, formerly
>f Ford and now of Defense; Lyn-
lon Johnson, Luther Hodges, Dean
lusk— and Ribicoff.
The "liberals" are Arthur Gold-
berg; Stewart Udall of Arizona and
pf Interior; Orville Freeman of Min-
nesota and of Agriculture; and—
jigain a surprise— often Attorney
Peneral Robert Kennedy of Massa-
chusetts, of the Kennedy family, and
af the Department of Justice. Post-
master General Edward Day of Cali-
fornia sticks to carrying the mail,
and rightly so.
As far as numbers go, "conserva-
tism," at least in a vague way, is
actually stronger in the Cabinet than
"liberalism," again vaguely defined.
But less obvious than numbers is
the fact that the President himself
is more often than not to be clas-
sified roughly within the conserva-
tive group. What has happened, ot
course, is that in practice a good
many cliches have fallen. Abe Ribi-
coff, for an illustration, never was a
"liberal" in any doctrinaire sense.
As a Congressman years ago and
later as Governor of Connecticut, he
93
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PUBLIC & PERSONAL
was a kind of Northern Lyndon
Johnson, a pragmatic moderate with
an East Coast accent, so to speak,
who, before he was through, had the
self-amazed support of large num-
bers of Yankee-type Republicans.
WHO GETS THE NOD?
B U T let us go now to how the Cab-
inet proceeds to its work. It meets
at the President's call, of course, on
agenda already laid out, sometimes
directly by him and sometimes by
his staff at his direction. (The good
Cabinet agenda system worked out
for the Eisenhower Administration
by Max Rabb has survived his de-
parture for the excellent and de-
served fees of a big New York law
firm.)
All sit down at their accustomed
places. The President, usually hold-
ing a paper, wastes no time in greet-
ings or calling upon a Cabinet of-
ficer by name. He only raises his
eyes from the top item on the pa-
per, briskly nods to the member who
is to be first to go to bat. Then the
man goes to bat. General discussion
follows. The President (probably as
laconic as Calvin Coolidge was said
to be) ordinarily confines himself at
first to a series not of comments but
of sharp, explicit questions. "Now,"
he may say, "I see this problem as
you pose it. But supposing that we
go along as you suggest, what do we
then do when such-and-such hap-
pens, as surely it might?"
Men may chip in as they please;
but in these meetings there is little
by-play and little first-naming. The
job is the thing. The most nearly
silent, generally, are Lyndon John-
son and Brother Robert Kennedy.
Bob Kennedy, when the discussion
is outside his own department, us-
ually is seen and not heard. Even-
tually, in most Cabinet meetings,
he will be drawn into the business;
but this will come about by the
President's invitation. Bob Ken-
nedy's reserve is a matter of personal
policy: not to be suspected of trad-
ing on his relationship.
Johnson tends to be reserved for
a different reason. The President
ircats him with unfailing deference,
niakiiig liim more nearly an Asso-
ciate President ihaii our system has
ever known. In the end Johnson is
brought into every major issue by
the President himself, either at the
Cabinet meeting or later in one of
their many, many meetings.
At the end of a Cabinet session,
the President, who has thus far con
fined himself largely to questioning
others, will sum up. "We have
heard such-and-such," he will sa\
"As it seems to me, our conclusion>
are now so-and-so." He never issues
orders or formally proclaims thai
he has now made up all minds on
this or that course. It is simply left
clear that he has in fact done so. .A.I
the end, too, "The Vice President'
becomes "Lyndon" again; the Sec
retary of HEW becomes "Abe'
again, and so on.
"unhappy" or on top
A GOOD deal has been writtet
to suggest that Mr. Kennedy ust
the Cabinet system less than mosi,
^Presidents for final decision-making
I do not know whether this is true
nor do I pretend to know whethe;
his professorial, non-Cabinet White
House advisers have the vast, cli|
mactic influence with which the^
are often credited. I think not. One
reads occasionally, for example, thai
Rusk of State is "unhappy" abou
the supposed intervention of the so
called White House "Whiz Kids" ii
high foreign policy.
My impression is that if Rusk i
"unhappy" it is because of the stat.
of the world; that he "runs" th
State Department to the precise de
gree he may care to. He is by tem
perament not a sharp, demandin
administrative type, but more nearl
a contemplative type. At all events
he is never blocked from seeing th-
President on any matter. In fact, h
undoubtedly sees the President mor
often, and more easily, than an
man in Washington apart from Vic
President Johnson and Bob Ker
nedy. And Robert Kennedy's meet
ings with the President are, natui
ally, often of the private and pei
sonal sort necessarily implied in th
word "brother."
Who, among the Cabinet, are "o
top of their departments" and wh
are not? Most positively "on top
is McNamara at Defense— though hi
perch in the cavernous Pentagon i
often shaken by angry admirals an
generals who are not accustomed t
a civilian boss who really meai
PUBLIC & PERSONAL
be the boss. Most positively "on
i" at Justice is Robert Kennedy—
lugh my impression is that, like
1 one of a long number of past
orneys General, he would not go
; of his way to tangle with the
oubtable (and also very able) J.
gjar Hoover of the FBI.
iibicoff is surely "on top" at
',W; he has (to the gain of this
V department) the great advantage
being the first HEW Secretary
h the political savvy to carry out
at is, after all, basically a poli-
an's job. Goldberg is having no
reaucratic trouble in keeping his
t at Labor; he is essentially a
reaucratic professional, as are
irly all top labor lawyers. As for
dges, don't worry about the abil-
of this Southern politician— like
lers of his breed— to run his shon
ninistratively ... by a kind of
letic awareness. Dillon incontest-
y runs Treasury, a stable institu-
n which passed from the gusty
itrol of George Humphrey to the
et, almost poetic leadership of
bert B. Anderson without the
5t trouble.
Vs to the other Cabinet members,
\w claim no special knowledge. I
Lild question whether Freeman
\griculture can really master that
e of earnest experts. These fel-
's go on and on undisturbed, like
staff of the British Foreign Of-
, through all upheavals, whether
ughts, crop failures, broken al-
ices, or world wars,
n summary, the Kennedy Cabinet
y be said to be a distinct success,
titutionally at least. What its
imate record may be, I have no
a, though as to its degree of prob-
e longevity I have a small fore-
t: namely, that the Cabinet
files which usually occur within
' Administration within two years
1 not happen here. These men
all glad to have the job; and for
St of them it is, quite plainly,
best and highest for which they
Id have hoped. They are not
erly men who had reached their
k before achieving Cabinet status,
ey are still on the way up. And
> may be one of the reasons why
) Cabinet has— again thus far—
n so singularly free of in-fighting.
Kennedy doesn't go along with in-
;uing within the ranks. And who
Its to lose a good job?
Tong Chin lived in a mountain village
on the East Coast of Formosa. His
home was a shed w^hich was part of
a pig pen. He was in rags, couldn't
speak Chinese, only tribal. He ate with
his hands and his mother was anxious
to get rid of him saying, "He can't do
anything. He only eats." Her attitude
explains why instead of living with her
he existed with the pigs. He couldn't
run away because he was blind. A
more hopeless future than the one he
faced is hard to conceive. But visit
him now in a Christian Children's
Fund Home for the Blind and listen to
him recite his lessons and play part of a classic on the piano. In just
a couple of months he has become a clean, bright and extremely
appreciative boy. Modern teaching methods for the blind can
accomplish miracles.
But what about the other needy blind or crippled, tubercular,
leprous, deaf and children who are normal except for their cruel
hunger? Some of them do not even have a roof over their heads and
sleep in the streets — these refugee, cast-off or orphan children
without a friend or guidance and who are neglected like a stray dog —
these forsaken children whom mercy passes by?
Christian Children's Fund can rescue and properly care for only
as many of them as its income permits. Such children can be
"adopted" in Formosa or any other of the 45 countries listed below
and the child's name, address, story and picture with the privilege
of correspondence is provided the donor. The cost to the donor is
the same in all countries, ten dollars a month.
Christian Children's Fund, incorporated in
1938, with its 415 affiliated orphanage schools
in i6 countries, is the largest Protestant
orphanage organization in the world, assisting
over 36,000 children. It serves, with its affiliated
homes, over 35 million meals a year. It is
registered with the Advisory Committee on
Voluntary Aid of the International Cooperation
Administration of the United States Govern-
ment. It is experienced, efficient, economical
and conscientious.
COUNTRIES :
Austria, Belgium, Bolivia, Borneo, Brazil,
Burma, Cameroun, Canada, Ceylon, Chile,
Egypt, England, Finland, France, Greece, Hong
Kong, India, Indonesia, Iran, Israel, Italy,
Jamaica, Japan, Jordan, Kenya, Korea, Lap-
land, Lebanon, Macao, Malaya, Mexico,
Okinawa, Pakistan, Philippines, Portugal,
Puerto Rico, Rhodesia (North), Rhodesia
(South), Scotland, Spain, Syria, Taiwan
(Formosa), Thailand, Turkey, United States
(Indian, negro, white), Vietnam (Indochina),
Western Germany.
For Information Write : Dr. J. Calvitt Clarke
CHRISTIAN CHILDREN'S FUND, INC.
Richmond 4, Virginia
I wish to "adopt" a boy Q girl D for
one year in
(Name Country)
I will pay $10 a month ($120 a year).
Enclosed is payment for the full year
□ first month □. Please send me the
child's name, story, address and picture.
I understand that I can correspond with
the child. Also, that there is no obliga-
tion to continue the adoption.
I cannot "adopt" a child but want to
help by giving $
nPlease send me further information.
NAME
ADDRESS
CITY
STATE
-Zone-
Gifts of any amount are welcome. Gifts
are deductible from income tax.
the new
BOOKS
Democracy and Its Discontents
IRVING KRISTOL
Irving Kristol, who was co-editor of "En-
counter" in London from 1953 to 1958 and sub-
sequently editor of "The Reporter" in New York, is
now senior editor of Basic Books.
TWO quotations:
(1) "I hold it to be one of the distinguishing
excellences of elective over hereditary successions,
that the talents which nature has provided in
sufficient proportion, should be selected by the
society for the government of their affairs, rather
than that this should be transmitted through the
loins of knaves and fools. . . ."
(2) "I talk democracy to these men and
women. I tell them that they have the vote, and
that theirs is the kingdom and the power and the
glory. I say to them, 'You are supreme: exercise
your power.' They say, 'That's right: tell us what
to do'; and I tell them. I say, 'Exercise your vote
intelligently by voting for me.' And they do.
That's democracy, and a splendid thing it is too
for putting the right man in the right place."
The first voice is Thomas Jefferson's. The
second is that of the demagogue, Boanerges, in
George Bernard Shaw's The Apple Cart. Both
are quoted, though not in juxtaposition, by
John W. Gardner in his thoughtful little book,
Excellence (Harper, $3.95), as representing the
democratic dilemma: how do we reconcile popu-
lar government with good government? Or, as
Mr. Gardner puts it in his subtitle: "Can we be
equal and excellent too?"
It is not a new problem, of course. Classical
political philosophy took it for granted that a
democratic regime— just as other regimes, e.g.,
aristocratic, oligarchic, despotic— had inherent
flaws that would, in the passage of time and in
the absence of corrective action, cause it to de-
cay. It is only in the modern age that democracy
came to be regarded as an ultimate and natural
form of government— a "way of life" most fittingly
human— in comparison with which all other
forms of human association are deviations or
temporary aberrations. In the United States es-
pecially, the democratic idea has always been
more a religious dogma than a political theory:
it is, indeed, the cornerstone of that civic religion
known as "Americanism."
No wonder, then, that we have until recently
relied upon foreign observers to look at this
matter for us; that the profoundest book on
democracy in America was written by a visiting
French nobleman; and that in our current self-
examination and' soul-searching, there is a cau-
tion and an apprehension as we transgress upon
hitherto sacred ground. Thus, though Mr.
Gardner's book is, as his publishers say, "on a
hotly controversial subject," it is not itself a
particidarly controversial book. Its outstanding
trait, entirely befitting the president of the Car-
negie Corporation, is judiciousness of tone, tem-
perament, and style. It makes its argument
entirely within the American individualist,
liberal perspective. Its aim is to reconcile the
two ideas of equality that are sanctioned by the
American political tradition: equality of op-
portunity and equality of status.
NO CLASS OF LEADERS
THE difficulty is that equality of opportunity
results in inequality of status— in every race,
there are winners and losers. The history of
American reform is that of a constant assault
upon inequality of status in the name of re-
establishing equality of opportunity. Mr. Gard-
ner is not unsympathetic to this intention; but
he is also aware that it has encouraged an
"equalitarianism wrongly conceived." The sign
of this equalitarianism is an unremitting hostility
to all outward marks of human excellence, such
excellence being taken for an arrogant display
of superiority. As Mr. Gardner observes:
One of the requirements of social effectiveness
in many segments of our national life is that one
not arouse envy through an unseemly display of
intelligence or talent. In this atmosphere it will
surprise no one that deliberately slovenly speech,
the studied fumble and the calculated inelegance
have achieved the status of minor art forms.
'a testament
to man's
unconquerable
mind"*
An absorbing and
exciting story of
incomparable detection:
how modern man has
wrested from the
cuneiform and runic
on ancient stones the
signs and riddles
wandering in the
maze of history.
"A testament to man's uncon-
tjuerable mind, to the dedication and
ingenuity of scholars who were deter-
nined to make the dumb past speak,
ind did."
—PETER GREEN, The Bookmuii
VOICES
IN STONE:
The Decipherment of Ancient
Scripts and Writings
by Ernst Doblhofer
16 pages of photographs,
400 line drawings.
$6.00
BETWEEN PAST
AND FUTURE
Six Exercises
in Political Thought
"Miss Arendt is one of the most bril-
liant and original of living political
philosophers. ..there is throughout
these essays a tension between an
almost uncanny (and exceedingly fem-
inine 1 percipience and a noble, elevated
(and exceedingly masculine) architec-
tonic of ideas."— IRVING kristol,
The New Republic $5.00
by Hannah Arendt
The Ascent of Gasherbrum IV
by FOSCO MARAINI
An adventure book like no other
ever written — a classic of ^"'"^^
mountaineering. J
"A superb book of
Himalayan adventure/
about the successful eight-
man 1958 Italian expedi-
tion to the summit of
Gasherbrum IV in the
Karakoram, out of Paki-
stan. Full of highly difficult
and dangerous climbs, this
book is also packed with
fascinating human details.
Maraini is an ethnog-
rapher, a film maker,
author of MEETING
WITH JAPAN, a very fine
writer and a genial soul.
He was photographer and
translator for this expedi-
tion. The more than 100
photographs, of which 55
are in full color, are mag-
nificent and breathtaking."
From an advance review in
Publishers' Weekly. 304
pages, 6Vb"x9Vs". $10.00
A* •»>*- '^
'/^
IViih the eye of a poet and the mind of a realist
—a loving remembrance of a way of life.
One of the most gifted contemporary
poets spent his growing-up summers
on his grandparents' farm in New
Hampshire. In this heartv\arming
book, Donald Hall remembers his
grandfather's stories and uhat it was
like to be a boy on a farm in a lovely
world that is probably gone forever.
With 1 4 drawings bvMimiKorach. $5.00
STRING TOO SHORT
TO BE SAVED
by Donald Hall
IKING
PEACETIME USES
OF ATOMIC ENERGY
This is the -revised edition of a work
which in the simplest terms tells of
how the atom is already at work help-
ing people to live better and proving
its value to modern life, in medicine
and agriculture, in industry, transpor-
tation and public power. Over 100
photographs. $5.00
by Martin Mann
EDUCATION AND
INCOME
Inequalities of Opportunity
in Our Public Schools
This startling book will be an eye
opener and a basic argument for re-
form for all interested in American
education today. It relates in highly
documented detail the case of the for-
gotten school child,
"...timely and provocative, a must
for those concerned with education in
urban areas."— louise s. steele,
The Washington Post. $6.00
by Patricia Cayo Sexton
98
THE NEW BOOKS
Mr. Gardner's critique of this "equalitarianism
wrongly conceived" is shrewd and cogent. It ^vill
perhaps be all the more effective in that it
resolutely refuses to violate the spirit of equality
itself. In the American democracy, he points out,
there is no class of leaders, nor can there be.
Leadership is dispersed among all the institutions
of our pluralist society— corporations, trade
unions, government, the military, the univer-
sities, the press, etc. The problem is not to weld
this leadership into some kind of "ruling elite."
It is rather to educate this leadership to perform
its functions, more competently than in the past,
within a democratic framework. This is all the
more urgent if we are to counter the threat of
communism on the international scene. It is
frequently said ihat, in order to compete effec-
tively with the Soviet Union, we must become
more equalitarian than we are. This is certainly
true in some respects (e.g., race relations). On the
other hand, as Mr. Gardner emphasizes, unless
we also become less equalitarian than we are, we
shall fail to achieve that leadership which will
enable us to compete at all.
Mr. Gardner concludes with, inevitably, a
demand that a revitalized democratic leadership
supply us with a "national purpose." Hans J. Mor-
genthau, in The Purpose of American Politics
(Knopf, $4.50), travels the course in reverse. Be-
ginning with the present quest for a national
purpose, he is led to an analysis of the inherent
problems of American democracy. The result is
an impressive and important book, full of radical
insights that flow from the confrontation of an
essentially conservative mind with the disarray
of democratic society.
Mr. Morgenthau (who, it may be noied, was
born and educated in Europe) does not define
the national purpose for us. He docs better
than that— he shows that individual efforts to-
ward such a definition are inherently absurd,
and that the idea of having a committee do the
job is positively comic. At best, it can result
in a pseudo-ideology; at worst, in vulgar delu-
sions of grandeur. A national purpose is the
collective work of generations, it is something
embodied in a civilization which men think
worthy of remembering and honoring. The true
national purpose is not what a nation says, but
what a nation is. The urge now to formulate
such a purpose is the expression of an inchoate
dissatisfaction with the results of democratic
civilization in America.
America's "obvious" purpose
THERE was a time— covering most of Ameri-
can history, in fact— when our national purpose
was quite obvious to everyone. One needed only
to describe America to state this purpose. Amer-
ica was a land where the itithvidual was en-
couraged to pursue his happiness under the
conditions of equality and freedom. Just what
this "happiness" consisted of, was necessarily
vague in theory (who knows what happiness is?).
In practice, however, it meant wealth and
material comforts, which are specific and tangible
enough. This "national purpose" may, in ret-
rospect, seem a bit ignoble. But as the first
civilization in history in which the common man
was encouraged to get rich, it had its peculiar
luster and charm. If we can judge from the
avidity with which the common people all over
the world are participating in the "revolution
of rising expectations," it still does.
In a sense, Mr. Morgenthau points out, the
older "purpose of American politics" was— to
live without politics. The growing complexity
of American life, and the inexorable involvement
of the United States in world affairs, soon robbed
this "national purpose" of its reality. But it still
haunts our imagination. The American Hero is,
typically, the ^Vestern frontiersman— self-reliant,
anarchic, unconstrained. His image is kept alive
for us by the movies, the comics, and on TV,
Avhere he is never shown filling out an income-tax
form, applying for a passport, or undergoing a
security check. As human ideals go, it is not a
bad one. But its only connection with the Ameri-
can of 1961 is to encourage him to a civic irre-
sponsibility and impatient simple-mindedness
that play havoc with our domestic and foreign
affairs.
Like Mr. Gardner, Mr. Morgenthau is eager
to promote excellence in American life, for he
is convinced that a new "national purpose"
worthy of the name can only arise out of a re-
ordering of American society and American at-
titudes. Unlike Mr. Gardner, he believes that in
a democracy the cultivation of excellence is not
the job of an educated leadership in general but
of the state in particular:
Tlie nation does not recognize nor does it reward
excellence in its midst through the instrument of
its collective will, the government. The American
landscape is dotted with innumerable islands of
excellence, which are surrounded by an ocean
of mediocrity. . . . The standards of excellence
are supported only by isolated individuals or
small nuclei of them, and not by a coherent
identifiable group, endowed with the prestige of
tradition and achievement. . . . [The] anonymous
pressures of unorganized society present real and
—for the individual— well-nigh irresistible social
power, to which only organized society in the
form of its government is able to furnish an ef-
fective counterweight.
Which is to say, unless one has a powerful
class that has both the authority and the willing-
ness to uphold cultural standards— and the very
existence of such a class is incompatible with
democracy— then the state must assume this role.
Though Matthew Arnold said much the same
thing many years ago, any such suggestion is
f
THE NEW BOOKS
bound to sound terribly controver-
sial to American ears. Just how
controversial, Mr. Newton Minow
is now finding out!
DEMOCRACY FOR WHAT?
I F Mr. Gardner puts his trust in
educated leadership, and Mr. Mor-
c^enthau in political leadership,
P'athcr John Courtney Afurray seeks
an ideological leadership. We Hold
These Truths: Catholic Reflections
on the American Proposition (Sheed
and Ward, S5) is a j^reliminary clear-
ing of the ground for the establish-
ment of an -American democratic
creed, "an order of elementary
affirmations that reflect realities in-
lu rent in the order of existence."
That this is a searching book,
those who know Father Murray's
writings will take for granted. It
argues persuasively that democracy,
I'ke any other political order, rests
upon a consensus, and that this con-
sensus cannot— as contem])orary po-
h'lical science seems to assume— be
merely procedural. That is to say,
it cannot simply prescribe how polit-
ical decisions should be reached, but
must also assert what the general
aim and intention of these decisions
ought to be. Unless one is going to
set up as an idol the brassy ma-
chinery of democratic politics, one
must ask: democracy for what?
Tliere needs to be a transcending
standard by which the "national in-
terest" can define itself, and by
which the popular w'ill can judge
and correct itself.
Father Murray, as a Jesuit, does
have an authoritative tradition— an
"un-American" tradition some will
say, but it is surely none the worse
for that— of "right reason" and
"natural law" from which he can
construct a logical justification of
"the American proposition," defined
as "a free people under a limited
government." Hi^ analysis, though
a pleasure to follow for its sheer in-
tellectual elegance, is not likely to
be convincing to non-Catholic read-
ers. Yet these, too, will be grateful
for the rigor that Father Murray has
brought to a discussion that too
frequently dissolves into mere rhet-
oric; and they will certainly benefit
from his acute observations on Amer-
ican foreign policy, the American
economy, and other specifics.
DOROTHY PARKER
in Esquire ... on The Memoirs of Casanova
It seems to me four or five times every day
is too much. There is a picture on each
cover, showing great dark circles under
his eyes and gaunt cheeks. And why not,
for God's sake?
MARCEL AYME
beginning a story in Esquire
Beneath a moonless sky two murderers
met at a crossroad. So furtively were they
moving through the night that they came
face to face, each without having heard
the other's footsteps, and each gave a
start of alarm that the other mistook for
a threat . . .
GAY TALESE
in Esquire ... on Eighth Avenue
It is hard to believe that this has-been
street was rather elegant a century ago,
and that horse-drawn carriages lined up
outside the Havemeyer mansion on Eighth
Avenue and Fifty-eighth Street, and that
the great homes that stood on Eighth Ave-
nue had spacious lawns, gardens and or-
chards that expanded westward to the
Hudson River.
mmi nm
in Esquire ... on Lady Chatterley's trial
The world now knows that verdict, but for
us, who waited on that day, it was a long
three hours before we heard — still in-
credulous in relief — those words: Not
Guilty. A ripple of applause broke out,
stentoriously suppressed; there was no
other comment. It is customary for the
Judge to express thanks to the Jury; Mr.
Justice Byrne did not do so, and the words
were spoken by the Clerk.
RESEARCH INSTITUTE
OF AMERICA
in Esquire ... on the average deductions
people earning $10,000-$! 5,000 can take
without waving a red flag in front of the
tax examiners
$413 for contributions, $588 for interest,
$605 for taxes, $485 for medical.
JAMES MATHESON
in Esquire ... on motherhood
We all love children, so it's sad but true
You bear them, then they can't bear you.
JOHN CROSBY
in The New York Herald Tribune
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-STATE-
:;
INTERVENTION
AND THE WAR
by Richard Ullman
Between 1917-1918 Allied policy
toward Russia originated largely
in London. Mr. Ullman shows
how the British government's
efforts to revive the Eastern
Front, first by urging the Bolshe-
viks to fight and then by inter-
vention, led finally, even after the
Armistice, to fighting at Arch-
angel, in Siberia, in the Caucasus,
and on the frontiers of India.
Intervention and the War, the first of
two volumes on "Anglo-Soviet
Relations, 1917-1921," is a worthy
companion to George F. Kennan's
Russia Leaves the War and The
Decision to Intervene.
$7.50 through your bookstore
Princeton University Press
Princeton, N. J.
ittiliiiiiukihiwij^
iaitititiiittmUiitiimiuaKtiMa^
THE NEW BOOKS
A thoroughly secular critique of
the prevalent conception of democ-
racy held by political scientists—
which sees democracy as nothing
more than a system for the efficient
reconciliation of diverse interests,
an equilibrium of countervailing
powers— is provided by Joseph Tuss-
man in his Obligation and the Body
Politic (Oxford, S4), a fine little book
that is not likely to get the attention
it deserves outside academic circles.
Mr. Tussman is concerned to defend
the idea of "the common good," or
"the public interest," against the ob-
jection that these are mere meta-
physical phantasms, behind which
always lurk the specific interests
of a group or class. His basic point is
that to reduce political relationships
to power arrangements is to make
any coherent theory of individual
rights or duties impossible. And such
a coherent theory is needed if free-
dom nnder the law is not to degen-
erate into freedom jrom the law, this
latter being the kind of freedom
suitable to a despotism rather than a
democracy. Mr. Tussman does not
himself offer us any such theory; but
he has at least tried to demonstrate
its necessity, which is no small thing.
A REALIST S VIEW
THE kind of approach to demo-
cratic politics that both Mr. Tussman
and Father Murray object to is well
represented in E. E. Schattschneider's
The Semi-sovereign People: A Real-
ist's View of Democracy in America
(Holt. Rinehart, and Winston,
$2.95). Mr. Schattschneider, a former
president of the American Political
Science Association, thinks that de-
mocracy in America is a "monstros-
ity." Indeed, it is not a democracy
at all, but "the largest, most
broadly based, ruling oligarchy in
the world." Who makes up this
oligarchy? The answer, unexpect-
edly, is: the sixty million adults who
vote in our national elections— who
are also, as Mr. Schattschneider
shows in a fascinating statistical anal-
ysis, the sixty million Americans
who own automobiles, have tele-
phones, read daily newspapers, and
file income-tax returns. The dis-
possessed and disenfranchised, it
follows, are the forty million who do
not bother to vote in national elec-
tions.
Why don't they vote? Because, he
says, the "game of politics" as con-
ducted by our political parties is so
rigged as to bore them into passivity.
The issues that are posed and de-
bated fail to quicken the imagination
of this excluded multitude. It is the
responsibility of our parties to dis-
cover the issues that would attract
them to political participation. The
consequences would be enormous:
All that is necessary to produce the
most painless revolution in history,
the first revolution ever legalized and
legitimized in advance, is to have a
sufficient number of people do some-
thing not much more difficult than
to walk across the street on election
day.
True enough. But would such a
revolution be desirable? "VA^ould these
forty million, comprising the least
informed and least alert section of
the population, use their votes to
gpod purpose or bad? Incredibly
enough, Mr. Schattschneider does
not even consider this problem. He
equates democracy with majority
ride; and he further equates majority
rule with actual majority voting.
From which it logically follows that
neither the United States (nor any
other country in recorded history)
has ever been a democracy at all! If
this be "realism" . . .
DEFINING OUR PROBLEM
I T is useful and chastening to be
confronted with the blunt fact that
one feature of contemporary Ameri- ■
can democracy— and apparently in-
trinsic to it— is the voluntary
disenfranchisement of the least
political sections of the community.
This fact would surprise us less if
we did not subscribe to a romantic,
"progressive" version of modern his-
tory in general and American history
in particular. Mr. Schattschneider
himself concedes that the advent of
universal manhood suffrage in this
country was not the consequence of
any indignant popular uprising, but
rather the casual by-product of party
conflict and competition. This sub-
ject has just been studied in
scrupulous detail by Chilton Wil-
liamson in his American Suffrage
from Property to Democracy, 1760-
1860 (Princeton, .f6). His main con-
clusions arc that, contrary to received
opinion, white male suflrage was so
BOOKS IN BRIEF
widespread as to be nearly universal
in the pre-Jacksonian era, that the
further extension of the franchise was
promoted as much by the opponents
of "Jacksonian democracy" as by its
supporters, that opposition or sup-
port was a matter of local electoral
tactics not of principle, and that peo-
ple were not much exercised over
this issue as compared with others.
His study receives confirmation
from Lee Benson's The Concept of
Jacksonian Democracy (Princeton,
S(i), which perhaps goes too far in
suggesting that there was no such
thing as "Jacksonian democracy"
at all, but which does brilliantly
demonstrate— for New York State at
least— that the movement which bore
this name did not constitute a
"democratic" rebellion of the lower
classes against the upper, but was
made up of a loose coalition of
|:)articular ethnic and geographic
groups with different motives.
Tt would seem, then, that a critical
rc-examination of what we take to
be American history— one that saw it
as something more than the inexor-
able unfolding of a predefined dem-
ocratic idea— might be relevant to
our present discontents. For any such
understanding, obviously, The Fed-
eralist Papers will play a crucial role,
since they tell us, better than any
other source, what the Founding
Fathers had in mind when they
established this republic. There have
been many editions of these papers
(a notable recent one, as "definitive"
as one would want, being Jacob E.
Cooke's, published by Wesleyan Uni-
versity Press at $12.50); but it is fan-
tastic to note that Gottfried Dietze's
The Federalist: A Classic on Fed-
eralism and Free Government (Johns
Hopkins, $6.50) is the first book ever
written on the subject in this coun-
try. Mr. Dietze was born and edu-
cated in Germany (naturally!), which
may explain why— like other Euro-
pean scholars disturbed by the
nationalisms that have rent that con-
tinent—he sets more emphasis on
the "federal" character of the new
body politic than an American
would, or even than Madison, Ham-
ilton, and Jay did. (Besides, there is
reason to think that the word "fed-
eral" did not signify to them what
it does to us.) But his book serves
the important function of reminding
us that the Fathers had thought
deeply on the difficulties involved in
setting up a popular government
which would satisfy other criteria-
liberty, order, and virtue— than that
of reflecting the will of the majority
at any particular moment.
The Federalist Papers certainly
cannot— as Mr. Dietze gives the im-
pression of suggesting— be used to
solve our problems for us; but it
most emphatically can help us to
define them. For the one thing the
Founding Fathers could not do was
to take democracy for granted, as a
form of government that was self-
justifying and self-perpetuating. Nor,
in 1961, can we.
BOOKS
in brief
KATHERINE GAUSS JACKSON
FICTION
A Season of Mists, by Honor Tracy.
There is never any point in "sum-
ming up the plot" of a novel by Miss
Tracy. So much of the delight in
reading her comes in her asides any-
way. But if one must explain: The
climate of her novel is an English
season when the September mists are
rising to blot out summer; when on
the social level the old Establishment
is being invaded by rock 'n' roll and
Teddy boys; when an elegant and
elderly bachelor art dealer dreams
himself in love with his most ordi-
nary young secretary. The graces he
endows her with! Well, read it for
pleasure in an English Indian sum-
mer, for most witty comment on the
art world anywhere, and for Miss
Tracy's all-seeing but compassionate
revelation of human folly.
Random House, $3.95
The Foxglove Saga, by Auberon
Waugh.
This is another English satirical
novel that blithely defies classifica-
tion. A first novel by the twenty-two-
year-old son of Evelyn Waugh, it
comes garlanded with praise from
people like Graham Greene and
John Betjeman. And the extraordi-
nary thing about that is that it lives
up to its billing. Ostensibly the story
of a contemporary English public-
^^A superb
portrait of
a man and his
time in England
and in the eyes
of posterity.
^^*
Horace
Walpole
By WILMARTH SHELDON LEWIS
:jc"As urbane, searching and
amusing as Walpole — an
author among politicians, a
politician among authors —
could hope . . . The wonder-
fully informal portrait of Wal-
pole that Mr. Lewis sketches
here has the cachet of conver-
sation. Mr. Lewis has taken
the liberty to lighten the
Gothic darkness around Wal-
pole with touches of almost
audible laughter." — charles
pooRE, Neiu York Times.
The A. W. Mellon Lectures in
the Fine Arts, 1960.
Bollingen Series XXXV.9
Ilhistrated |6.50
Published by BOLLINGEN
FOUNDATION. Distributed
by Pantheon Books, 333 Sixth
Avenue, New York 14, N. Y.
102
BOOKS IN BRIEF
school boy through his twenty-first
birthdav, it gives the author a chance
to get his knife into a great many
aspects of British life— ChurcU, Pub-
lic Schools, the Upper Classes,
Beatniks, the Army, the Family, Do-
Gooders, and especially Moms. Only
the arts escape. It also creates some
unforgettable characters, again, espe-
cially Mom. Actually in the final
chapters it goes well beyond satire
into glorious and ghostly, ghastly and
Gothic melodrama with an aura not
unlike the current sick jokes that are
going the rounds. But he pulls it off
with a wit that at times is so dry it
almost breaks with its own brittle-
ness, and at others is utterly and de-
lightfully slapstick. Unlike Miss
Tracy's satire, compassion has no
part here; nothing at all is soft to the
touch, but the polish is really
Waugh-inspiring.
Simon & Schuster, $3.95
Faces in the Water, by Janet Frame.
The author of Owls Do Cry here
writes about the experiences of a
brilliant woman in two mental hos-
pitals. They happen to be in New
Zealand but one feels that it all could
have happened in that kind of insti-
tution anywhere. The book is called
a novel, but it is written in the first
person and it is hard to believe that
if one had not gone through these
G^rim experiences one could possibly
have translated them with such in-
flight and intensity and passion into
uhat, for all its horror, often reads
like poetry. And as the author re-
veals the strengths and weaknesses of
the human mind suspended on the
edge of terror and the abyss, one is
completely and entirely identified
with her and all others in her ghastly
j)redicament. The reader can be as-
sured that this is unlike any other
book about mental hospitals he has
ever read. . . . Nothing could be
further from the wit and detachment
with which Miss Tracy and Auberon
Waugh observe the human condi-
tion, but for me at any rate, the in-
volvement this book insists upon was
a welcom.e change.
Brazil ler, S4
The Grove, by Burton Bernstein.
This scries of sketches about a
group of middle-dass Jewish families
who summered every ye.u on a Mas-
sachusetts hike during the late 1930s
and the 1940s has a unique humor
and quality in spite of the number of
other talented writers who have tried
to set their Jewish-American child-
hoods in amber. And of course every-
one who captures the dialogue of the
adolescent these days is accused of
copying Salinger and so forth. But
Mr. Bernstein's ear, eye, and wit are
very much his own. Reading of these
quiet lakeside summers (and a final
incredible Boston dinner party when
the children are grown) induces a
pleasure and nostalgia not at all
limited to the Jewish community.
An impressive first "novel."
McGraw-Hill, $4.50
The Small Room, by May Sarton.
It is a great relief to find one's
reading self in an academic com-
munity where the inevitable tensions
of such close living seem to rise from
people liking and respecting one an-
other too much rather than too little.
It is a women's college in New Eng-
land, noted for its high academic
standards; the protagonist (almost
too good to be true but appealing
nonetheless) is a young woman Ph.D.
who has just broken her engagement
and has turned to teaching in des-
peration. The constant question be-
fore the group of professors and their
wives as they meet over martinis and
in faculty meetings is: What is the
price of excellence? Through the
experience of one girl it is all acted
out in a pretty absorbing and con-
vincing charade. The book is full of
ideas expounded in easy and often
amusing conversation and as the
group comes finally to the end of
its discussion of the obligations of
the teacher one is convinced that
there are as many ways of being a
good teacher as of being a good per-
son—none easy. A pleasant and
thought-provoking sojourn behind
modern New England's ivied walls.
Norton, $3.95
NON-FICTION i
As if getting ready for the fall con-
cert season, several books on music
and its interpreters have just ap-
peared.
Of Music and Music Making, by
Bruno Walter.
Intended as an extension of his
autobiography. Theme and Varia-
tions, this volume by the distin-
guished conductor plays a kind of
happy musical hopscotch with such
varied subjects as the origin of music,
musical interpretation, the peculiari-
ties of the conductor's task, music
and stage (opera), notes on Bach's
5^ Matthew Passion, the Mozart of
The Magic Flute.
Norton, $5
Everybody's Guide to Music, by Wil-
liam Hugh Miller.
Mr. Miller, who is a teacher and
choral director, believes that every-
C HECK LIST :
BOOKS ABOUT ARMS AND NUCLEAR CONTROL
The Atomic Energy Commission
and Regulating Nuclear Facilities,
by William H. Berman and Lee M.
Hydeman. Published by the Atomic
Energy Research Project of the
University of Michigan Law School.
Paper, S4, Cloth, $5
The Nation's Safety and Arms Con-
trol, \)y Arthur T. Iladley.
Viking, $2.50
Disarmament: The Challenge of the
Nineteen Sixties, by James P. War-
Ijurg. Doubleday, $4.50
Strategy and Arms Control, by
Thomas C. Schelling and Morton
H. Halperin.
Twentieth Century Fund, $2.50
Arms Control, Disarmament, and
National Security, edited by Donald
G. Brennan with the sponsorship of
the American Academy of Arts and
Sciences. Brazillcr, $6
Arms Reduction Program and Is-
sues, edited l)y David H. Frisch.
Twentieth Century Fund
Paper, $L25
BOOKS IN BRIEF
le is "capable of some degree of
usical appreciation." This is a
nd of textbook explaining various
pects of music and the allied arts
d one gathers that the reader is ex-
cted to concentrate on the part
at interests him most. Pretty tech-
cal but informative.
Chilton, $7.50
he Jazz Life, by Nat Hentoff.
Mr. Hentoff, whose work is fa-
iliar to Harper's readers, here
rites in affectionate though not un-
itical detail of the special world
the jazz musician whose playing
his "total existence." While doing
he gives profiles of many of them—
iles Davis, John Lewis, Thelonious
onk, Ornette Coleman, Charles
ingus, Count Basie— to mention
ily a few of the jazz greats who beat
leir way through these lively pages.
Dial, $5
And in October will come A His-
>ry of Modern Music, by Paul Col-
er, translated from the French by
dly Abeles. M. Collaer is Vice-
resident of the Orcliestre National
e Belgique, a musicologist whose
pecial field is innovation in the
msic of the twentieth century.
World, $6.50
FORECAST
•eace and Survival
A look at the publishers' fall cata-
3gues gives some sense of the variety
jf the problems which beset a civili-
ation eager to survive. In September
omes a two-volume work from
)oubleday called The Cold War and
is Origins, by D. F. Fleming, an ad-
iser to the State Department on
tomic energy. Praeger announces
or October Mao Tse-Tung on Guer-
illa Warfare, translated and with
n introduction by Brigadier Gen-
ral (USMC Ret.) Samuel B. Griffith,
icribner has scheduled for Novem-
)er Nuclear Weapons and the Con-
Uct of Conscience edited by John C.
iennett— "a discussion of the moral
nd strategic aspects of the nuclear
lilemma." And in the new year will
ome America's Quest for Peace, by
)exter Perkins (Indiana, January)
nd The Irreversible Decision: Ethics
nd the Atom Bomb, by Robert C.
5atchelder (Houghton Mifflin, Feb-
uary). In different but relevant areas
we will have from Doubleday in
September Traitor Within: Our Sui-
cidal Problem by Edward Robb Ellis
and George N. Allen, and Fertility
and Survival: Population Problems
from Malthus to Mao Tse-Tung by
Alfred Sauvy, director of L'Institut
National d'Etudes Demographiques
in Paris, which will come from
Criterion in October.
Three Big Fall Novels
October will see the publication of
Little, Brown's False Entry, by Hor-
tense Calisher, author of In the Ab-
sence of Angels, and The Judas
Tree, by A. J. Cronin, author of The
Citadel and Keys of the Kingdom.
In January from Houghton Mifflin
comes Devil Water by Anya Seton.
Three Books of Short Stories
Three distinguished novelists are
bringing out books of short stories
this fall. H. E. Bates includes twelve
in The Enchantress and Other
Stories (Little, Brown); Pearl Buck's
is called simply Fourteen Stories
(John Day); and John O'Hara calls
his collection of twenty-four Assem-
bly (Random House).
Gardeners' Reference Shelf
As we near the end of the summer
garden season it does no harm to con-
template some books for comfort
when later "the sedge is withered
from the lake." In the fall, probably
October, The Complete Guide to
Modern Flowers, edited by Herbert
Askwith, will be published by A. S.
Barnes. It is a one-volume guide to
garden planning and cultivation
with 1,000 plates in full color. And
for late winter or early spring
Harper announces A Dictionary of
Plant Names, by A. William Smith,
which will be a guide to the origin
and meaning and pronunciation of
botanical names with a cross refer-
ence to common names. Then there
are The Complete Book of Lilies,
by F. F. Rockwell, Esther C. Gray-
son, and Jan de GraafI (16 pp. of
photographs) from Doubleday;
Ground Covers for Easier Gardening,
by Daniel J. Foley from Chilton; and
New Horizons in Flower Arrange-
ment, by Myra J. Brooks with Mary
Alice and John P. Roche (19 pp. in
full color) from Barrows. All these
September publications. What pleas-
ure is in store.
Good English a
must for success
in high school
and college!
Start the school year right
with this IVlerriam-Webster!
Today's high school and college
students are up against the severest
competition of all time.
To do well in high school — to succeed
in college — good English is the key.
You must be able to talk and write effec-
tively, accurately.
This ability develops quickly with reg-
ular use of a personal copy of Webster's
New Collegiate: the Merriam-Webster
dictionary required or recommended at
schools and colleges everywhere.
"With Merriam-Webster," teachers
say, "you know you're right. Its defini-
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It is an essential aid to good English."
Start the school year right with a
Merriam-Webster. $5 plain, $6 indexed,
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Don't be misled. Other "Websters" do
not include the scientific names for plants
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and punctuation essential in a dictionary
for school, home, or office use. Ask today
for a Afemam-Webster.
M U lb I C« in the round
BY DISCUS
THE AMERICAN OFFENBACH?
The hard brilliance it takes to write
light music . . . and the integrity . . .
qualify this composer of Broadway hits
to rank with the great in a difficult art.
What does Leonard Bernstein do
best? Conduct? Compose seri-
ous music? Compose musical com-
edy? Lecture? Play the piano? Write
books? Sing? Dance? Act? An argu-
ment could be put up for any one
of those activities. But many do
honestly believe that his metier is
the Broadway musical stage. With
his kind of musical sophistication,
his real ability to create a tune, and
his sense of humor, Broadway is ideal
for him. Much of the public seems
to subscribe to that point of view.
Three of his shows— O?? the Town,
Wonderful Town, and West Side
Story— were smash hits. The latter
two immediately received original-
cast recordings, but the first Bern-
stein hit, On the Town of 1945, some-
how missed out. Only recently has
the omission been rectified, in the
Columbia disc of the musical (OL
5540, monophonic; OS 2028, stereo).
Bernstein has it in him to be the
American Offenbach. (Indeed, his
Candide Overture is decidedly Offen-
bachian.) On the Town remains quite
an achievement— a score full of in-
vention, bubbling over with vitality
and youth, and far and beyond the
stock music that litters Broadway
year after year. O?? the Toicn does
owe much, of course, to the brilliant
lyrics of Adolph Comden and Betty
Green; but Ivrics alone never made
a musical. Bcrnsicin had the musical
wit and technique to match such
virtuoso texts as Come up to my
place and Carried away, the latter
full of canonic imitations written
with tongue in cheek. None of these
are "hit" tunes; they are too uncon-
ventional—and good— for that. But
they do carry the spirit of Broad-
way into a genuinely operetta area.
Light music is very hard to write.
The composer has to be himself and
still please the tired businessman.
It takes a certain kind of hard bril-
liance to master the field, to write
lively tunes and still preserve in-
dividuality and integrity. Bernstein
carries it off very beautifully, and
the only cliches into which he falls
are his own. Offenbach and Sir
Arthur Sullivan, in their day, could
also carry it off. Lehar did, up to a
point. Cole Porter does. Gershwin
did. Johann Strauss did. Messager
did. Kern did, to a lesser degree. But
there are not too many more. Rich-
ard Rodgers, for instance, seldom
does. His music is too commercial,
too carefidly calculated, much too
sentimental. He always is conven-
tional—in his melodies, his harmo-
nies, his book.
Could the answer be that a great
composer of light music has to have
a thorough traditional (e.g., "classi-
cal") musical education? Most of
them have had; Gershwin is the great
exception. Sullivan certainly did,
just as did Strauss, Bernstein, Lehar,
and most of the others. Any profes-
sional listening to a score like the
Gilbert and Sullivan lolanthe, in a
re-recording with complete dialogue
by the D'Oyly Carte Opera Company
(London A 4242, monophonic, 2
discs; OSA 1215, stereo, 2 discs), im-
mediately must realize that Sullivan
was a composer to his finger tips.
This has nothing at all to do with
whether or not one likes the Savoy
operas. The finish of the writing and
the scoring, the superb feeling for
the vocal settings, the smooth modu-
lations—all these are the work of a
thorough professional. And Sullivan
was a very inventive melodist.
So, of course, was Offenbach, the
German-born composer who became
more Fiench than the Arc de Tri-
omphc. Highlights from his master-
piece, Orpheus in the Underworld,
can be heard on an Angel disc (35903
monophonic; S 35903, stereo). Not
Orpheus aux Enfers, for the work is
sung in an English version by Geof
frey Dunn, with English singers and
the Sadler's Wells Orchestra con-
ducted by Alexander Paris. To those
who are familiar with the French
the English version may souni
just a little flat. It remains grea
fun, however. If ever there ^v'as ii
repressible music, this is it. As witi
any great music it is full of inven
tion. ^Vhich means that its melodic
content is personal with the com
poser, that its harmonies are rich
and imaginative, and that a con-
summate technician is at work.
Even in so faded a work as Lehar's
Schon ist die Welt can technique ol
this order be heard. Highlights from
this operetta of 1934 have been re
corded, along with highlights from
Karl Millocker's DubaiTv (Epic LC
»3758, monophonic; BC 1117, stereo).
In scores like TJie Merry Widow and
Gypsy Love, Lehar carried on the
great Viennese tradition. Schd}i ist
die Welt is scarcely of this caliber
It is the kind of piece in which a
skilled composer, completely written
out, is going through the motions
But how expertly he does it!
Dubarry, which dates from 1879.
is more of a piece. Millocker turned
out operetta after operetta for the
Theater an der Wien, and many ol
them were big successes in their day.
but Dubnriy is the only one which
has had a reasonable amount ol
fame. It is a pleasant piece of fluff,
full of waltzes and Kitsch, and is
(like the Lehar) admirably sung by ;
group of German singers under tht
direction of Kurt Richter.
A Root in Vienna
^Vould it be sacrilege to place tht
comedy-operas of Richard Strauss in
the operetta category? Those works
like Der Rosenkavalier, are scorei'
for immense orchestras, demanding
great voices and the full panoply ol
grand opera. And yet, basically, Dei
Rosenkavalier is Johann Strauss oi
the Lehar of Merry Widoio carriec
to the nth degree. Like their oper
ettas, its plot contains elements o
farce, and is full of the operetta
conventions (man masquerading ai
woman), just as it is full of V^iennese
sounding waltzes, sex, and near-bun
Icsque. Of course, the Lehar never
^ MUSIC IN THE ROUND
lived who could begin to duplicate
the Marschallin's monologue in the
fust act, or the trio in the third.
(AVhereas the closing duets of the
ojjera can almost be duplicated in
some of the greater Viennese oper-
I cttas.)
Whether neo-operetta or not, Der
Rosenknvalier does have a root in
the Viennese musical stage. So does
.\rabella, which came much later in
Strauss' life. Again we have the con-
ventions (woman masquerading as
man; waltzes; a big ballroom scene),
and again there is a type of senti-
mentality that stems straight from
Vienna. Both of these operas can be
sampled in "highlight" recordings.
The more interesting of the two is
the Rosen koxmlier disc (London
5()15, monophonic only). For one
thing, it is the greater opera. For
another, it is a series of excerpts
from an album many believe to
be the best modern version— with
Maria Reining as tlie Marschallin,
Sena Jurinac as Octavian, Hilde
Gueden as Sophie, and Ludwig
Weber as Baron Ochs. The late
Erich Kleiber leads the Vienna Phil-
harmonic. (Most collectors would
agree that the greatest all-time re-
cording is the abridged version made
in the 1030s by Lotte Lehmann,
Elisabeth Schumann, Maria Olszew-
ska, and Richard Mayr. It has been
reissued in the Great Recordings of
the Century series, Angel 4001, 2
discs.)
The Arabella disc (London 5616,
monophonic; OS 25243, stereo)
is taken from London's full-
length recording and features Hilde
Gueden, Lisa della Casa, George
London, and the Vienna Philhar-
monic conducted by Georg Solti.
Those who do not respond to the
late Strauss point out that Arabella
is an echo of Rosenkavalier, Zarathu-
stra, and Bourgeois Gentilhomme,
Tvith some of the kitchen sink thrown
in. Others just melt when they hear
the long vocal lines, the incredibly
rich orchestration, and those juicy
harmonies. Their word for the late
Strauss operas is, invariably, autum-
nal. And they may have a point.
Strauss was constantly echoing him-
self in his late works, but there is
a ripeness, a maturity, a sort of
golden, reflective glow and remem-
brance of things past, that can be
altogether bewitching.
JAZZ
Eric Larrahee
notes
D JANGO
RC; A \' I C T O R has added consid-
erably to the surviving testament of
the Belgian-born Gypsy guitarist, Django
Reinhardt, with a new LP called Djan-
gology. a collection of sessions privately
recorded in Rome in 1949-50 and res-
cued from obscurity by a provident RCA
executive. Django recorded often, but
not often as well as this in the years
between his postwar American tour and
his untimely death in 1953.
Django was one of the genuine rari-
ties, a European jazz musician who from
early in his career compelled admiration
from the American public and players as
well, the latter ranging across extremes
of style from Barney Bigard to Coleman
Hawkins to Barney Kessel. I'n the mid-
'thirties he created the Quintet of the
Hot Club of France (violin, three gui-
tars, double bass) and, working against
his colleagues' sometimes sodden sup-
port, made recordings that deservedly re-
main in the catalogues (see the London
and Capitol entries below). Despite a
left hand mutilated in youth, he could
manage runs of a suppleness and agility
dial matched his right hand's rhythm.
The title of the new Victor album is
something of a misnomer, since with one
exception the remainder of the Quintet
is not the original group, but a pick-up
trio of Italians whose achievement con-
sists mainly in staying out from under
foot. The other veteran's sound is itself
unmistakable, since he is Stephane Grap-
pelly, with Joe Venuti (of Paul White-
man days) one of the extremely rare
jazz practitioners of the violin. Grap-
pelly's touch is sure, and the oddness of
hearing a swinging fiddle now is almost
enough to make the album his, rather
than Django's.
Of Reinhardt I can add only that one
hears always in him that blend of tradi-
tional heat with "coolness" that both en-
deared him to Louis Armstrong and led
the Modern Jazz Quartet to give his
name to one of their earliest composi-
tions. Perhaps one might read into him
also a faint, wild echo of "Play, gyspy,
play"— a note of reassurance that jazz
can. and will, happen anywhere, to any-
one.
Djangology. Django Reinhardt and the
Quintet of the Hot Club of France, with
Stc^phane Grappelly. RCA Victor LPM-
2319. Swing from Paris. London LL-
1344. The Best of Django Reinhardt.
Capitol (2) TBO 10226. Django Rein-
hardt Memorial. Period (3) 1201/3.
Now is the time to
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Magnifico! (Also incredible!) This
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ADDRESS-
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DEPT. HA
Air-India, 565 Fifth Avenue, Plaza 1-6200
Chicago — Cleveland — Dallas
Los Angeles — Philadelphia — Washington, D.C.
Conservation Officer checking a Wood Duck box on a municipal reservoir — Photo by Ted Croner
Reflections on a reservoir
Here's ho\A/ communities
get fresh \A/ater and how
commercial banks help
"Till taught by pain," said the poet, "men
really know not what good water's worth."
But this much is certain.
Where water flows pure and plentiful all
nature thrives. And most importantly man
can drink his fill without fear.
That's why reservoirs are so important to
all of us, and how to finance them is one of a
community's most vital decisions.
Most often nowadays a new municipal water
supply is created on a pay-as-you-go basis.
Revenue bonds are issued to raise the money
for construction. Over a period of years bond-
holders arc paid interest and the bonds are
retired out of money collected from private
citizens and businesses according to the
amount of water they use.
Perhaps the most important function in
this method of financing is the trusteeship
vested in commercial banks for the bonds is-
sued by the community. And here's v/hy.
The commercial bank's trust specialists
take on the exacting task of making certain
that the community water authority meets
many of its obligations to its bondholders.
By so protecting the bondholder, the banker
helps assure the community of a constant
supply of fresh and pure water.
The Chase Manhattan Bank, a leading
trustee for revenue bonds, is always ready to
serve the needs of any state, county or com-
munity in cooperation with its local bankers.
THE
i
9
MANHATTAN
BANK
CHARTF.REO IN 1799
1 Chase Manhattan F'la/a, New York 15, New York
M'.'ii-hvr Iwdcrcil Drpmii Insurance Cdrfinraliiiil
TT ere is the newest All First Class liner to the Orient, the
11 long-awaited SS PRESIDENT ROOSEVELT. A block
and a half of seagoing luxury, it has everything you'd expect
to find at one of the world's best addresses — from ballrooms
to beauty shops, lanais to libraries, spacious lounges (even
a soundproof fun-room for teenagers!), cabarets, first-run
movies, and gourmet restaurants offering more dishes than
Louis XVI himself had to choose from.
There are nurses and nurseries, a completely equipped
hospital, a topside kennel, a swimming pool and volleyball
courts. Modern stabilizers give you lake -smooth sailing.
There are enough shops to serve a small town. And miles of
sun-swept deck space — every square foot of it First Class.
Naturally, each stateroom has its own private bath,
telephone, radio and, of course, air conditioning. As well
as 'round-the-clock room service at the touch of a button.
Below are sketches of the interior. Color swatches,
you an idea of the decor in each room.
Fares for round-trip cruises to the Orient be;
$1 175; fares one way to Japan, at $510. To book p
on the maiden voyage of the PRESIDENT ROOSEV|
or any of the other President Liner sailings listed be(
call your Travel Agent or write American President
3 1 1 California Street, San Francisco 4, for free broi
SAILING DATES:
PRESIDENT ROOSEVELT Jan.
PRESIDENT WILSON Jan.
PRESIDENT HOOVER Feb.
PRESIDENT CLEVELAND . . . Feb.
PRESIDENT ROOSEVELT Feb.
from from
SAN FRANCISCO LCS ANGELES
11 Jan. 13
26 -
5 -
13 Feb. 15
28 -
PRESIDENT WILSON Mar. 12 Mar. 14
\
HOI
.Jl
.Ji
.Fl
.Fe
.M
.M
Suite Arrangement
These hedruom-sittin^ room suites convert in moments to
accommodate from one to four. Complete with spacious
modern hath. Ideal for shipboard entertaining or for solitude.
Decor: warm browns, rust, beige, blues and burnished yellow.
H
Main Lounge
A quiet room for casual conversation. Deep-cushioned
and chairs make it your own private club at sea. The
blues and greens of the carpeting and upholstery, acci
by white drapes and yellow paneling, strike a tranquil
^
AMERICAN PRESIDENT LINES Sailltn,' from San Francisco to Honolulu, Yokohama, Hong Kong. Manila,
OFFICES: SAN FRANCISCO • LC. ANGELES • SEATTLE • PORTLAND • CHICAGO • BOSTON • NEW YORK • WAS H I N GTO N, D. C. • HON
Uober 1961 1 Sixty Cents
4
%
magamne
THE
OLLEGE SO.
A 64-PAGE SUPPLEMENT ON GiFf
le new generation of undergraduates and their teachers . . .
hat kind of education they really get... their reviving
terest in politics . . . their new approach to religion and sex
PLUS.
..A FULL REGULAR ISSUE WITH
An Escape from the CIA
A Way Out of the Welfare Mess
^^The New Thinf" in Jazz
^ Houston's Superpotriots
The Case Against GaUrioith
Photographed at Loch Lomond, Scotland, by "21" Brand
Why there's a httle of Loch Lomond
in every bottle of Ballantine's
Loch Lomond, Scotland's celebrated lake of ballad and verse,
imparts something very special to Ballantine s Scotch Whisky.
It lends some of its serenity and sunny -lightness to the spirit.
Realistically, Loch Lomond's azure waters are
perfect for making Scotch. For good Scotch re-
(juires a water of uncommon gentleness. And the
Loch's water is measured at only '^ to 5 degrees
of hardness (London's water measures up to
MH) degrees). Another important considera-
l\(iu: Ballantine's contains a df;licale harmony
of 42 Scotch Whiskies, each contributing its particular flavo
to this Scotch's pleasing personality.
The final result is Scotch never brash or heavy— nor so limpl
light that it merely teases the taste buds.
The final result is Scotch Whisky as Scotc
Whisky should be. Good-natured, full of prou
heritage, flaunting its authentic flavor and qua
il) lo all those who enjoy its company, just
few reasons why: the more yoii knoiv abov
Scotch the more yon like Hallaiitine^i
BOTTttD IN SCOTLAND • BLENDED SCOTCH WHISKY • 86 PROOE • IMPORTED BY"2rSran65. IllCN.Y
1 x^
Beneath a field like this...
is a complex communications center
In minutes, an enemy attack could
level some of our sprawling cities.
Because of this, the Bell System is
now supplementing its great reaches of
buried cable with a network of under-
ground communications stations.
Under the protection of a thick earth
and concrete cover, and away from
maj or target areas, several Bell System
communications centers are already in
operation. Many more are to come.
The walls for these installations are
huge, reinforced concrete slabs. Venti-
lation systems filter air so fine that
even radioactive fallout cannot enter.
Food and water are stockpiled. Living
quarters are provided for all operating
personnel.
These buildings are costly. Tough
to build.
Yet, the Bell System recognizes that
communications are the lifelines of our
defense systems. And so we took the
lead in establishing these underground
centers with our own money.
There are many other ingenious
projects in our "Survivability" pro-
gram for America's communications.
Many cannot be mentioned here.
Because of them, ambitious com-
mand, control and defense systems
are feasible. And our vast existing
communications network is one of
America's most ready defense weapons.
BELL TELEPHONE SYSTEM im
H A K P E K & K I! O T H K K S
Chairman of the Executive
Committee: cass can field
Chairman of the Board:
FRANK S. MACGREGOR
President:
RAYMOND C. HARWOOD
Executive Vice President:
EVAN W. THOMAS
Vice Presidents:
EUGENE EXMAN, ORDWAY TEAD,
DANIEL F. BRADLEY. JOHN FISCHER,
URSULA NORDSTROM
Treasurer: LOUis F. haynje
M A (; A Z I N E STAFF
Editor in Chief: JOHN fjscher
Managing Editor: russell lynes
Publisher: John jay hughes
Editors:
KATHERINE gauss JACKSON
CATHARINE MEYER
ROBERT B. SILVERS
LUCY DONALDSON
MARION K. SANDERS
JOYCE BERMEL
Contributing Editor:
WILLIAM S. WHITE
Editorial Secretary: rose daly
Editorial A ssistant:
VIRGINIA HUGHES
A D % K K T I S I > C DATA
HARPER-ATLANTIC SALES, INC.
247 Park Ave.. New York 17, N. Y.
Telephone YUkon 6-3344
Production Manager: kim smith
49 East 33rd St., New York 16, N, Y,
Telephone MUrray Hill 3-1900
HARPER'S MAGAZINE:
© 1961 by Harper & Brothers.
All rights, including translation into
other languages, reserved by the
Publisher in the United States. Great
Britain, Mexico, and all countries
participating in the Universal
Copyright Convention, the International
Copyright Convention, and the
Pan-American Copyright Convention.
Published monthly by Harper & Brothers,
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Composed and printed in the U.S.A.
by union labor by the Williams Press.
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This issue is published in
naiion.d and special editions.
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Address all correspondence relating
to sub.scriptions to: Subscription Dcpt.,
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HariDer
MAGA
ZINE
PIULISHLD in
HARPER & BROTHERS
tip
VOL. 223, NO. 1337
OCTOBER 1961
ARTICLES
37 A Way Out of the Welfare Mess, Edgar May
43 My Escape from the CIA, Hughes Rudd
48 Houston's Superpatriots, Willie Morris
61 The Uncanny World of Plasma Physics,
John L. ChafJtnan
69 "The New Thing" in Jazz, Martin Williams
76 Corsica Out of Season, Wallace Stcgner
80 The Proper Tool Will Do the Job, Norman Hallidoy
82 The Culture Monopoly at Lincoln Center,
Herbert Kufyferberg
FICTION
57 A Bird on the Mesa, William Eastlake
VERSE
88 Variations on a Lorca Form, Ruth Krauss
97 Our Friends the Russians, Henrietta Fort Holland
DEPARTMENTS
6 Letters
12 The Easy Chair— "private vs. public": could kenneth
(; Ai.r.RAnii bi wrong? Henry E. Wallich
•U) After Hours, Doiiald Barthelme and Russell Lynes
98 Public &: Personal— the lady from oregon,
William S. White
104 The New Books, Alfred Kazin
1 1 1 Books in Brief, Kathrrine Gauss Jackson
116 >rusic in the Round, Discus
1 18 Jazz Notes, Eri( Larrabee
A SPECIAL SUPPLEMENT
119 The College Scene: Table of Contents
ARiisis: Cover, Clhnrlcs Oosiiii; 30. 32, N. M. Rodrdccr:
Christoplicr .Simon; 57. 63, 80, 81, Gil Walker; 6.'3, (i7. }.ii
Cross; 71 71. IWirt (;oldl)l:ilt; 76, 79, Bernard Perlin;
Eni;iniicl .Sdiongut; 117, Helen Frank.
J
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T?eader's Digest
_1_ ^^ ^5 MUSIC. INC
and RCA\^CTOR invite you to choose
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299. Two of the most
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300. Melodious
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316. "A compendium
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soys The Reporter.
276. "One of the
greot piano record-
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Hi-Fi/Stereo Review.
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LES PRELUDES
HUNGARIAN Rtf APSODY Ns. 2
Fiedler - BOSTON POPS
273. Hungorian Rhap-
sody No. 2, Les Prel-
udes, Rokoczy March,
Mazeppa.
Gershwin
RHAPSODY *
Amei'i<;aii tn. Paris
NEbUER • BdsrON POPS
215. At lost! The de-
finitive versions of
George Gershwin's
classics.
591
RESPIGHI [^^
FOUNTAINS OF ROME
PINES OF ROME;
TOSCANINI
30i. Electronic stereo
reprocessing of glow-
ing musical souvenir
of the Eternal City.
"V'"'^I**^)
"RieWenna
of Johann Straass
VIENNA PHILHARMONIC
HERBERT TON KftBAlAN
DVORAK
327. Overtures: Gyp-
sy Baron, Die Fleder-
maus; Tales from the
Vienna Woods, others.
331. Perfect blend of
excellent muslcionship
and most sensitive
direction.
337. ". . . plenty of
subslonce and sense;
forthright, sensitive."
—High Fidelity.
314. Saturday Revievy
recommends this su-
perb record. Exotic
musicol impressions.
DVORAK • SYMPHONY NO. 5
From 'THE NEW WORLD"
31 5. Electronic stereo
reprocessing of one
of his finest perform-
ances.
MORTON GOULD
AND HIS
STMPHONIC BAMtD
* STARS AND STRtPES FOREVER
* SEMPER FIIKU$*El CAPTTAN
297. The Thunderer,
The Gladiotor; 13
Sousa strutters in wol-
loping sound.
250. Epic film score
containing original
version of the hit
theme.
7. Wognificeni nev/
recording of dromolic,
prize-v.'inning TVscore
by Richord Podgerj.
264. Old Devil Moon,
others. "A musicol
pot of gold"- Hi-Fi/
Stereo Review.
4. Younger Than
Spring Time, Some
Enchanted Evening,
Bali Hoi, others.
1 . Soothing inslrumcn-
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Young, By The Sleep '
logoon, 8 more.
243. Deep In Mv
Heart, Dear; Sere-
node; other famous
Romberg songs.
1812
OVERTURE
RAVEL /BOLERO
SOUND SPECTACULAR
IWOffTON GOULD
ORCHESTRA «, BAND
226. Connons
gong
roors, massed
strings
and bands. A
marvel
of sound.
tt. It Maximum '■ f
ROGER AND HAMMERSTEIN S
THE SOUND OF MUSIC
246. Rodgers and
Hommerstein's great
score. Moria, My Fa.
vorilo Things, more.
123. A collector's
item! Celeste Aida;
Vesti la giubbo. (Reg-
ular LP. only) .
305. Faust: Soldiers'
Ctiorus; IL Trovatore:
Anvil Chorus; Lohen-
grin: Bridal Chorus.
Ba
.<.v,™.i>.i
Bjoerling
Caruso
Oi Stefano
Gigli
Jolinson
Martinelli
McCormack
Melcliior
Peerce
Schipa
Years
of Great
Operatic
336. This formidable
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cludes Tagliavini, Val-
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I-"N^I^I
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SfMPHONY
NO.S
Mitchell
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307. "The drama, fire,
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-High Fidelity.
SAINT-SAENS
SYMPHONY No. 3
■ORGAN' SVMPMONV
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317. Dazzling sound!
"Strictly lor those
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— HiFi/Stereo Review
313. "Superhumor
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lionce," says Hi Fi
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New RCA VICTOR RECORD CLUB
Edited by Reader's Digest music experts exclusively for members
of the new RCA Victor Record Club.
In each beautifully illustrated monthly issue you will read:
■ Candid interviews with famous musicians, artists and composers ■ How
to build, with the help of experts, an enduring record collection ■ Descrip-
tions of special Club records available to members only — and at amazingly
low prices ■ Behind-the-scenes stories on Broadway, Hollywood,
Symphonies, Opera and Jazz ■ Interesting news, facts, and lore to open
the exciting world of music for every member of your family.
2?|
n^^v^^^^n^n
LEONTYNE
h
pmcE
311. Met's new sen-
sation. Arias from IL
Trovatore, Aida, Tos-
CO, Butterfly, others.
WANDA LAITDOWRKA
321. Stunning read-
ings include Smelana's
Moldau, "Bartered
Bride" Overture.
323. Harpsichord.
Complete 2-Part; sev-
en 3-Part Inventions.
(Regular L.P. only)
CHICAGO SYMPHONY
RIMSKY-
KORSAKOFF
mmm
lUIIUIUUUnULI sCHUBeRT
FRITZ REINER | UnFIIlISHeD
CHICAGO SYMPHONY ■ and SYMPHONY No. 5
301 . An orientol
chestral feast,
sumptuous sound,
perb recording.
or- 324. Two of Schu-
in bert's most melodic
Su- works splendidly per-
formed by Reiner.
GROFE:
fiRANO CANYON
SjJITE
MORTiiN GOULD
AND HIS ORCHESTRA
BEETHOVEN: WELIINSTON'S VtCTOAy
304. Sonic conversa-
tion piece features
colorful Grofe, stir-
ring Beethoven.
BEETHOVEN n™a
Symphony No. 5
"^BIOLAN OVERTURE
RElNER./CHICAGb SYIVI.
306. The symphony
with the "V for Vic-
tory" theme glows
with power.
WILLIAM TELL
THE BAHBGR OF SEVILLE
312. Spirited per-
formance includes La
Scala di Seta, IL Sig-
ner Bruschino, more.
|»aVio».|<<;i
TOSCANINI
TRAUBEL
MELCHItm
WAQneR
Die Walkure
Die Gotterdammerung
332. Die Walkure, Act
I, Scene 3; excerpts
from Die Gotterdam-
merung; (Reg. L.P.)
308. "Monteux pre-
sents a polished, witty
Haydn . . . effective,"
-High Fidelity.
OFFENBACH l-"V""»|.r'.|
GAJT^ PAPISIEMNE
KHACHATURUN
GAYNE BAUET SUiTE
REDLER/BOSTON POPS
322. Absolutely the
last word in SOUND
— the sauciest Goite'
of them all!
309. "'Monteux's
reading is notoble—
freshness; expressive-
ness." High Fidelity.
MARIAN
ANDERSON
SPIRITUALS
154. Deep River, He's
Got the Whole World
in His Hands, 18
more spirituals.
318. "Mosterful, to-
nally ravishing read-
ings."—N.Y. Times
ROBERT SHAW CHORALE
STEPHEN rOSTEK
FAVORITES
222. Beautiful
Dreamer, Oh! Susan-
na, Comptown Races,
ten other immortols.
319. Chopin's Polo-
naise in A-Flat,
Minute Waltz, more.
(Regular L.P. only).
TONIGHT:
IN PERSON
The<
Limeliiers
269. Nation's hottest
folk-singing trio re-
corded in concert. 10
favorites.
291. Rich Spanish
Gypsy moods spun by
the peerless flamenco
guitarist.
mighty
Hymns by
the
ROBeRt
shAW
choRAle
294. Now the Doy is
Over, Fairest Lord
Jesus, O Worship the
King, others.
m AT
CARNEGIE
HALL
This two-disc
recording
counts as tv/o
of your five
records. En-
t e r each
number in
separate
space on
coupon.
950-950A The actual Carnegie Hall
Concert recorded live. His most excit-
ing collection.
RC«VlCTORLi*i.
Puccini
turanOot
This Ihree-disc set counts as three of your
five records . . . Enter each number in sep-
arate space on coupon.
^52; 952A; 952B. Complete opera with li-
Ibretlo. Celebrated cost! Brovos from the critics.-
**The Turandot one has waited for, and it super*
sedes oil previous olbums"— N.Y. Times. *'. . ,
ranks as a milestone"— Hi/Fi Stereo Review,
RCA VICTOR RECORD CLUB 3.IO
c/o Reader's Digest Music, Inc., P.O. Box 3, Village Station, New York 14, New York
SEND ME the 5 RCA Victor records whose numbers I have filled in below, billing me
only $1.87 plus ii small charge for handling and postage, and sales/use taxes where applicable.
From the several hundred that will be offered, 1 agree to purchase during the year ahead,
5 additional records, at the Manufacturer's Nationally Advertised Prices. Thereafter, for
every two additional records I purchase, 1 will receive a dividend record of my choice, FREE.
SEND ME THESE FIVE RECORDS (Fill in the numbers below)
&5)
Name.
(please print)
Address.
Enroll me in the following
Division of the Club :
j I CLASSICAL Q POPULAR
(Checl< only one)
And enter my name to receive
I I STEREO* [^ REGULAR L.P.
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*Please note: Stereo records can
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Send no money. A bill will be sent. Records can be shipped only to residents of the U.S.. its territories
and Canada. Records for Canadian members are made in Canada and shipped duty free from Ontario.
City.
.Zone.
_State_
If you wish your membership credited to an authorized
RCA Victor dealer, please fill in below.
The five-year plan may be in
bad odor because of its Russian
origin. But there's a good deal to
be said for the idea all the same.
A plan for a specific number of
years can be a wonderfully effec-
tive incentive-giver and goal-
establisher.
Suppose you've thought about
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year for the next five years.
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Follow the performances of their
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Then five years from now (or
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MERRILL LYNCH,
PIERCE
FENNER & SMITH
IN CORPORATEO
Members New York Stock Exchange
70 PfNE STREET.NEW YORK 5, N. Y.
LONDON 110 Fenchurch Street
PARIS 7 Rue de la Paix
1 43 Offices in U.S., Canada, and abroad
LETTERS
Paradise Lost
To THE Editors:
"Your Ibiknown Heirs" [by Murray
Teigh Bloom. August] was most enlight-
ening to those of us in California who
puzzled through three years of legal
verbiage trying to find out if and when
we would receive the money willed to
us in the estate of a New York cousin,
whose simple, direct will was drawn up
by one of the best firms of attorneys in
that city. We were the heirs, designated
by her, but the members of the firm
\v'hich had drawn ihe will had much to
contend with. They spent endless time
and money scouring the country to find
every known relative, something a good
genealogist could have done in short
order. They found every known rela-
ti\c and dickered with a few they
ihought niigjit have contested, .\fter all
that, they informed us that the surrogate
((Hirl Avould appoint a guardian for un-
known nn'nors! The only minors who
(ould have inherited would have been
(hildren of first cousins and our cousin
Avas nearlv eighty. There were no first
cousins who could have had minors
known or unknown. Apparently even
tlie best attorneys have their hands tied
by legal red tape. VVHiv make a will?
Marion Di-ane Perkins
Yucaipa, Calif.
Why Work?
To the Editors:
Don't you lielieve Seth Levine exag-
gerates a bit Avhen he writes [in "How
to Play the Unemployment-insurance
Game," August], "The dismal truth
seems to be that no one today believes
it is better to earn a dollar than to col-
lect one"? On the contrary, the truth
is that for every worker collecting an un-
employment-insurance dollar in Amer-
ica today at least twenty prefer to
cam it. Edward Corsi
Unemployment Insurance
.Appeal Board
N. Y. State Dept. of Labor
New York, N. Y.
Seth Levine's article is well-meaning
but misdirected. At best, his evidence is
the experience in his shop. He fails to
recogni/e that whatever fraud was com-
mitted by his employees, either when he
failed to list them on his payroll or
when his company "arranged" for lay-
offs l)efore vacations, he and his
firm were also knowingly committing
fraud. . . .
Mr. Levine refuses to recognize that
unemployment insurance is designed to
compensate for part of the wage loss
which arises from total or partial job-
lessness. Thus, in citing the case ol
three workers who wovdd jointly earn
,S390 when normally employed, he feeb
they should be content with earnings
of S260 and not seek supplementatioK
by unemployment insurance to whicB
they are legally entitled. Even with suet
benefits their income is still short of th<
S390 they normally earn. This de
ficiency, which must be made up in ful
from savings or by borrowing, is th)
worker's contribution toAvard the cos
of unemployment. There is no reasoj
why they should pay additional charge
while working. ... |
Of course everything that is clone H
improve State Employment Services anj
help to retrain the unemployed id
suitable work are steps in the right dj
rection. But much of these efforts ma
also be wasteful unless there are jolj
to be had. When work is plentiful
there is no incentive to draw unemplo]
men tin sura nee benefits.
Lazare Tepe
Dir.. Research Dep
Inter. Ladies* Garment VV^orkers' Unio
New York, N. 1
The .\ijthor Replies:
Mr. Teper presumes too much. It <
because I insist upon remaining withi
the framework of the law that our cor
pany encountered the exasperating pr
duction bottlenecks that prompted it
to write the article.
As for the universality of the m;
practices I described, I can only say th
Mr. Teper lives in a circumscrib(
world. Many business acquaintances
different fields of manufacture co
firmed my findings before submission
the article. Seth Levii
New York. N
I
We can all be grateful for the i
formative article by Seth Levine. Leg
lators, in their efforts to provide enou;
loopholes for businessmen, evidently g
carried away by the spirit of the tiiii
and slipped in a few for the commi
worker. We will have to be more al<
and get our lobbyists on the ball to p;
vent this sort of danger to our soc
Lewis Leder
New V'ork. N.
i
structure.
As a Claims Representative for t
Bureau of Old-Age and Survivor's '
surance in Washington, D. C, 1 mi
Any 3 Books FREE
WITH YOUR FIRST SELECTION (SAVINGS UP TO $35.55)
SELECTIONS MAKE THE DIFFERENCE! Here are some of the selections
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that range from social science to the fine arts. These are only a few from
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Find Club will make available to you as a member if you join now. As an
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The City in History, Lewis Mumford.
Retail $11.50. Member's price $6.95.
The Labyrinth, Saul Steinberg. Retail
$7.50. Member's price $4.95.
The Fate of Man, edited by Crane Brln-
ton. Including Plato, Sophocles, Aquinas,
Spencer, Nietzsche, Engels, Freud, Toyn-
bee, Kant, Whitehead, Kluckhohn, Shap-
ley, Rosenberg, Huxley, and others. Retail
$7.50. Member's price $4.95.
The Age of Jackson, Arthur M. Schles-
inger, Ir. Retail $6.50. Member's price
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The Crisis of the Old Order, Arthur M.
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The Politics of Upheaval, Arthur M.
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price $4.95.
sf-.J-B., Archibald MacLeish; and Brave New
World Revisited, Aldous Huxley. A dual
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Let Us Now Praise Famous Men, James
Agee and Walker Evans. Retail $5.50.
Member's price $4.95.
The Futilitarian Society, William i. New-
man. A comprehensive view and indict-
ment of American conservatism — from
William H. Chamberlain to Russell Kirk
and Clinton Rossiter. Retail $6.00. Mem-
ber's price $4.50.
The Western Intellectual Tradition: From
Leonardo to Hegel, J. Bronov/ski and
Bruce Mazlish. Retail $7.50. Member's
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Images of Man: The Classic Tradition in
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Mills. Penetrating studies of man by
Lippmann, Marx, Engels, Veblen, Weber,
Spencer, and many others. Retail $7.50.
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America as a Civilization, Max Lerner.
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ii The Lotus and the Robot, Arthur Koest-
ler; and Lanterns and Lances, James
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The Basic Writings of Bertrand Russell,
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Dennon. Retail $10.00. Member's price
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Identity and Anxiety: Survival of the
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Karl Jaspers, and many more. Retail
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The Affluent Society, John Kenneth Gal-
braith. Retail $5.00. Member's price $3.50.
The Creek Myths, Robert Graves, Retail
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After the Seventh Day, Ritchie Calder.
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The Odyssey: A Modern Sequel, Nikos
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The Golden Age of American Anthropol-
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A History of Western Morals, Crane Brin-
ton. Retail $7.50. Member's price $4.50.
The Masks of God: Primitive Mythology,
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A History of Sexual Customs, Dr. Richard
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The Joy of Music, Leonard Bernstein.
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rThe Future as History and The Worldly
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of the Great Economic Thinkers, both by
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Love in Actiffi: The Sociology of Sex,
Dr. Fernando Henriques, illustrated with
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The Children of Sanchez, Oscar Lewis.
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:<The Informed Heart: Autonomy in a Mass
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Humanity, Alfred Cobban. Combined re-
tail price $9.50. Member's price (for
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^Two books counting as one selection
THE BOOK FIND CLUB
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You may enroll me as a member of the Book Find Club and send me the three
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PROOF . NAIIONAl DISTIILER3 PPODOCTS CO., N[W YORK.
disagree with Scth Levine Avhcn he im-
pHes that a retired worker is doing
something quasi-illegal and unethical
when he collects both social security and
unemployment-insurance benefits. The
Social Security Act does not define re-
tirement as a complete stoppage of
work. It indicates that a worker is re-
tired as long as he does not earn over
SI. 200 per year. If he earns more, he
still may be entitled to some of his bene-
fits, depending on the amount he earns.
Even if he earns a substantial yearly
amount, he is considered retired any
month during which he does not earn
over $100. . . . Helen Wanger
Rockville, Md.
McNamaras Role
To THE Editors:
My deep-felt thanks and congratula-
tions to Joseph Kraft for "McNamara
and His Enemies" [August]. I most sin-
cerely hope that both Harper's and Mr.
Kraft will folloAv up this essay [with a
series] on our progress in achieving di-
rection and cronomv for our nu'litary
needs. I must admit to a certain per-
sona! prejudice: my late father, who re-
tired in 1922 after thirtv years of service
. . . was a strong proponent of joint
.\rmy-Navy planning, procurement, and
task-groups— this was licresy then as it
apparently still is! . . .
CfIOrgk M. 1. an don
Phoenix, .Ariz.
America in Crisis
To THE Editors:
It was encouraging to hear from .Adlai
Stevenson above the din of the New
Frontiers and the hard-line warmongers.
Fortiuiately. Mr. Stevenson's duties with
the I'nited Nations have not kept him
from injecting his voice of sanity into
an "America Under Pressure" [.August].
George C. Roberts
University of .Arkansas
Fayetteville, .Ark.
\Vhy does Mr. Stevenson tliink that
America is not essentially conservative?
He implies that conservatism is incom-
patible with popular government. How
is it less so than lil)eral socialism, with
its vast, overweening super-State? . . .
J. S. Swart
New York, N. Y.
Teachers^ Taxes
To THE Editors:
Thank you for not rejecting Dr. Ros-
enlK'rg's arlicle, "A Mailer ol .Motive"
I^Augusi], although it is rcgreital)le that
r
he may thereby have to pay more taxes.
Our organization has received a great
many letters detailing the experiences of
teachers unable to deduct educational
expenses. Few ever had their returns
audited until they attempted to deduct
expenses incurred for continuing their
education. T am afraid that manv feel
a bit like criminals when the audit takes
place. This makes them easy prcv for
the agent who carefidly (and often cor-
rectly under the tax rulings) explains
that they tuay not deduct expenses be-
cause they have not met minimum re-
quirements for teaching. The fact that
some have been teaching for ten years,
receiving a salary from public funds
for so doing, and passing and failing
students . . . makes no difference. . . .
\Vhat shocks the hardy few who pursue
the matter fmther is the offer of "com-
promise." Thev cannot understand whv.
after telling them the expenses are not
deductible because they are not quali-
fied teachers, an agent (Avhcn he tliinksf
a court case might ensue) offers to com-
promise to permit a deduction of half ,
the original amount. Does this mean
that thev arc half teachers?
Martha L. ^Vare
.Asst. Dir., Research Di\isi()n
National Education .Association
Washington. D. C.
Selling Democracy
To THE Editors:
D. H. Radler's ill-documented ap-
praisal of Time's Latin-American cover-,
age [in "Our National Talent for Of-
fending People." .August] should not go
unanswered. . . . Mr. Radler is at some
pains to demonstrate that Time has
been unfair in its treatment of President
Ramon \'illeda Morales of Honduras.
. . . Time's comments on Dr. \'illeda
quoted by Mr. Radler are among the
comparatively few negative things Time
has written about him. .Apparently Mr.
Radler's research did not extend to our
coverage of Dr. Villeda's 19.54 presiden-
tial campaign, when we said: ". . . Scion
of a wealthy landholding family. \'ilk'da
is a socially conscious pediatrician and
author of many books and articles. . . .
.As for Honduras' scraggly Communists,
who probably voted for him. \'i!Udn
says plainly: 'I am unalterably anti-Com
munist.' He is on record as a frienc
of the U. S., and one of the first to (on
gratulate him on his election pluralit>
was U. S. -Ambassador ^\'hiting Wil
lauer."
.Although we have been critical ojjfi
President Villeda's administr;uion oi
some occasions, we also generalized [on
January 11, 1960: "Two years afie
Ram(')n Villeda Morales moved into th
presidency as the overwhelmingly popt
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TOULOUSE-LAUTREC. A Definitive Biography by Henri
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his work. List Price $6.00
1
TROPIC OF CANCER
By Henry Miller
^
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HE LAST OF THE JUST. By Andre' Schwarz-Bart. "A
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HE WORLD OF ROME. By Michael Grant. What it was
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LETTERS
lar reformer after an era of a strongman
rule and canceled elections. Honduras
is free and politically stable. . . ." Time's
May 19 report stated: "Villeda in his 31/2
years as President has forged an inde-
pendent democracy that neither bows to
nor automatically defies the U. S. He
is a popular, intuitive democrat. . . ."
Mr. Radler's amazing charge that
Time has nothing but ridicule for vir-
tually everything Latin American does
not merit rebuttal. Time's network of
liureaiis and correspondents through-
out Latin .A^merica (unique in the mag-
azine field) are constantly turning up
fine stories (often exclusives) in the
fields of art, literature, business, medi-
cine, music, etc., a fact much appreci-
ated by Latin Americans.
Finally— and most incredible of all—
we read that Time is kindly toward
Latino dictators! Even a casual reader
of Time knows this to be preposterous.
Batista, Trujillo, Peron. Rojas Pinilla,
Perez Jimenez. Castro . . . have all felt
the sting of Time's critical— and, I be-
lieve—fair coverage over the years.
We have made our mistakes, of course,
and they are to be regretted. But they
were not for want of good feeling to-
ward Latin America or for want of try-
ing to get at the truth of the matter.
Frank R. Shea
Asst. to the Publisher
Time Magazine
New York, N. Y.
.\pparently nothing much has changed
. . . since the time I was employed
by the American Embassy at Petrograd
in my native Russia during and after
the 1917 revolution. The American
men spoke vociferously about democ-
racy, but the main extracurricular oc-
cupation was to mingle with nobility.
Nevertheless, I fervently hope that Mr.
Radler's article will become a must on
Madison Avenue, in the State Depart-
ment, and in all other places where it
will do the most good to our very much
needed prestige abroad.
Bertha P. Klenova
Florence, Ala.
Dissent from Yugoslavia
To THE Editors:
Two people with long experience in
Yugoslavia have written comments on
my reports about that country which
appeared in the July and August issue
of Harper's [Easy Chair]. Since each of
thcni has compelling reasons for not
wishing to be quoted, and since both
tf)ok exception to some points in the
articles. I feel that in fairness to Harper's
readers their (ommciits should he sum-
marized here.
One of these correspondents argued
that the reports "leave an impression of
unity with the West that does not in
my view exist in Yugoslavia's foreign
policy or basic ideology . . . [they] tend
to obscure the great, though not un-
bridgeable, chasm that still exists be-
tween Yugoslavia and the West." The
articles certainly were not intended to
convey such an impression, but they
may have done so inadvertently because
I tried to put primary emphasis on the
news: i.e., the growing gap between
Yugoslavia and Russia, both in eco-
nomic and in social structure. That was
something I had not expected— while I
took it for granted (perhaps too much
for granted) that everybody was aware
of the long-existing gap between Yugo-
slavia and the West.
He also commented that "while theo-
retically a Yugoslav citizen may go into
business, the practical difficulties, in-
cluding the problems of space, are very
great"; that "controls on foreign trade
have not been drastically relaxed"; and
that the role of government in economic
matters is still dominant.
My other correspondent points out
that Yugoslavia has not always followed
the Russian lead in foreign affairs quite
as blindly as I suggested. "For instance,
they have not accepted the Troika prin-
ciple," or joined altogether wholeheart-
edly in the Soviet attacks on the UN
and its Secretary General. He notes that
government subsidies to religious semi-
naries "are small, and the churches have
a very difficult time to maintain them-
selves." He suggests too, that in report-
ing the large number of Yugoslavs who
travel I may have given the impression
that "anyone can get a passport. . . .
Actually one of the real remnants of
harsh political pressure is the Ministry
of Interior's Passport Division . . . some
[people] never get one."
I am glad to defer to my friends on
all these points— which are after all mat-
ters of judgment about details, rather
than basic disagreement on the nature
and direction of the Yugoslav society.
John Fischer
New York, N. Y.
John Fischer's footnotes on Tito's flair
for "panache and finery" reminded me
of C^hurchill's comments (in Triumph
and Tragedy, p. 88) on his meeting with
the young leader on a hot afternoon in
Naples in 1944, after the fall of Italy:
"Marshall Tito came up to the villa,
wearing a magnificent gold and blue
vuiiform which was very tight under the
collar and singularly unsuited to the
blazing heat. . . . Later I entertained
Tito at dinner. He was still confined
in his gold lace strait jacket. I was so
glad to be wearing only a white duck
si'it" R. B. Werey
Piedmont, Calif.
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HENRY E. WALLICH
THE EASY CHAIR
a
Private vs. Public"
Could Kenneth Galbraith Be Wrong?
The guest in the Easy Chair this month is Pro-
fessor of Economics at Yale and author of the
recent book, "The Cost of Freedom: A Neiv Look
at Capitalism.'^ In 1959-61, he served as a member
of President Eisenhower s Council of Economic
Advisers.
AS President Kennedy's program unfolded
afier January 20, the financial storm flags
that had gone up during and after the campaign
came down abruptly. The outflow of gold, which
had been nourished by campaign talk about easy
money and big budgets, came to a halt. This was
the financial world's way of saying that it re-
garded the program as moderate and not very
different from what the Republican program
would have been. It looked as if both parties
had something to cheer about: the Democrats
had their man, the Republicans had their pro-
gram.
But it would scarcely be fair to the President's
advisers, whose views are well known, to assimie
that a few months in office have fundamentally
changed their minds. Their problem is that the
gold flow is not just a barometer. It is a positive
check. The United States cannot afford a pro-
gram that would undermine confidence in the
dollar. It puts the Administration's economists
in the position of Oscar Wilde's French-speaking
Englishman, who said not what he wanted to say,
but what he could say. If and when the gold
situation permits, their economic pronounce-
ments will probably recover the familiar ring.
This ring has been made familiar by the writ-
ings of J. K. Galbraith, Seymour Harris, Arthur
Schlesinger, Jr., Alvin Hansen, and others. It
rejects our ancient American folklore that poli-
ticians spend too much. In its place it puts the
intriguing notion that they spend too little.
Publif needs are underfinanced while private
tastes are overindulged— that is the proposition.
The two parts of the proposition seem neatly
to complement each other— too much of one,
therefore too little of the other. In fact they
don't. It is one thing to be irritated by certain
manifestations of our contemporary civilization
—the gadgets, the chrome, the tailfins, and the
activities that go with them. It is quite another
—and something of a nan sequitur— to conclude
from this that the only alternative to foolish
private spending is public spending. Better pri-
vate spending is just as much of a possibility.
My contention here will be that to talk in terms
of "public vs. private" is to confuse the issue.
More than that, it is to confuse means and ends.
The choice between public and private money
is primarily a choice of means. The sensible ap-
proach for those who are dissatisfied with some
of the ends to which private money is being
spent, is to specify first what other ends are im-
portant and why. Having determined the ends,
the next step is to look to the means. That is the
order in which I propose to proceed here.
What Is Wrong with Private Spending?
One may share the irritation of the new social
critics as they look upon some of the fluff and the
floss on our standard of living. My personal feel-
ings can be characterized by noting that I have a
1951 car and no TV. The critics may want to
bear in mind, however, that not all the money in
this country is spent by people for whom life
begins at $25,000. The median family income is
15,600. Would these critics of the affluent society
want to try living on much less than that? When
Galbraith inveighs eloquently against switch-
blades, narcotics, and other phases of juvenile
delinquency, he deserves the support of all right-
thinking representatives of what he calls the
"conventional wisdom." But are the sources of
these aberrations more intimately tied to afflu-
ence or to poverty? The exponents of the new
social criticism may also want to remember the
outcome of that "noble experiment," Prohibi-
tion. It should have taught us that it is futile to
become our brother's dietitian. I hope that it has
IVAITER
FOR ONLY
J]^(D)(D)
AS A NEW MEMBER
PLATO
FIVE GREAT DIALOGUES
NOTHING short of amazing is the way this great
classic (written more than two thousand years
ago) hits so many nails squarely on the head today!
Here, in the clearest reasoning in all literature, is
the pure essence of how to get the best out of life —
whether we possess worldly wealth or only the riches
in our hearts and minds.
This beautiful edition contains the five great dia-
logues. In these conversations between friends —
fresh, spontaneous, humorous, informal — you have
"philosophy brought down from heaven to earth."
MARCUS AURELIUS
MEDITATIONS
THROUGH these writings, you gaze as if through a
powerful telescope at the Rome of eighteen cen-
turies ago. You will be struck by resemblances to
our own era as you read the wise Meditations of the
great emperor-philosopher, Marcus Aurelius, the
Stoic who found peace in traditional customs . . .
the witty arguments of Lucian, the Skeptic, who
punctured so many beliefs . . . the impassioned words
of Justin, the Christian, willing to die for the new
religion.
ARISTOTLE
ON MAN IN
THE UNIVERSE
'f'Tr'HE master of them that know," this supreme
X mind of the fabulous Golden Age of Greece was
called by the poet Dante. He was so far ahead of
his era that his ideas are astonishingly timely today.
Nature, politics, art, drama, logic, morals — he ex-
plored them all, with a mind open to truth and a
heart eager for understanding.
Included is the essence of his five celebrated es-
J says. You will be amazed, as you read them, how
this great philosopher discovered by pure reason
so many truths upon which modern scientists and
thinkers have only recently agreed.
P
Why The Classics Chib Offers You This Superb Vahie
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14
THE EASY CHAIR
also imbued us with wholesome doubt about the
moral right of some members of the community
to regulate the lives of the rest.
Irritation with the poor judgment of other
people who fail to appreciate one's own more
advanced tastes is not new. It was a familiar sit-
uation during the 1920s. The critics then quoted
T. S. Eliot's The Waste Land, and some went off
to Paris in search of greener cultural pastures.
The feeling behind the new social criticism is
not dissimilar. Hence one might suppose that the
reaction would likewise turn in a cultural direc-
tion. One might expect the critics of contempor-
ary materialism to plead for more intensive
preoccupation with things of the mind. Some fits
and starts in that direction there have been, to
be sure. But they have not been in the main
stream of the movement. The principal alterna-
tive to private materialism that has been offered
to us has been public materialism.
Signs of Quality
Obviously, the quality of our culture could be
greatly improved by public expenditures for edu-
cation and support of the arts. The sales of good
paperbacks and LPs are encouraging signs. But
if contemporary materialism is to be leavened
by such pursuits, it will be principally because
large numbers of individuals make private deci-
sions to that end. Social criticism is constructive
if it helps precipitate these decisions. It obstructs
a desirable evolution if it suggests that public
creature comforts are the only alternative to
private.
But while emphasis on nonmaterial ends seems
sadly lacking in the new social criticism, the
critics are right in pointing out that new material
needs also have been carried to the fore by social
and economic evolution— even though they mis-
label them as public needs. In the good old days,
when this was still a nation of farmers, most
people had no serious retirement worries, there
was no industrial unemployment problem, good
jobs could be had without a college degree, most
diseases were still incurable-in short, social
security, education, and health care found primi-
tive and natural solutions within the family and
among the resources of the neighborhood. Today,
these solutions are neither adequate nor usually
even possible.
Meanwhile mounting wealth and advancing
technology have brought within reach the means
of meeting these needs. We can afford to live
better in every way— more creature comforts,
more leisure, more attention to matters of the
mind and the spirit. At the same time we can
take better care of retirement, of unemployment,
of illness, of education, of the possibilities opened
by research, than ever before.
There are indeed new needs. The ( iii/en-iax-
payer has his choice of meeting them, as well as
all his other needs, in one of two ways. He can
buy the goods or services he wants privately, for
cash or credit. Or he can buy them from the
government, for taxes.
The nation as a whole pays taxes to buy public
services as it pays grocery bills to buy groceries.
The tax burden may be heavier for some in-
dividuals than for others. But the nation as a
whole has no more reason to complain about the
"burden" of taxes than about the "burden" of
grocery bills— and no more reason to hope for
relief.
Of the two stores, the private store today still
is much the bigger. The public store is smaller,
but it is growing faster.
Each store has some exclusive items. The pri-
vate store sells most of the necessities and all of
the luxuries of life, and in most of these has no
competition from the government side. The pub-
lic store has some specialties of its own: defense,
public order and justice, and numerous local
services that the private organization has not
found profitable. But there is a wide range of
items featured by both stores: provision for old
age, health services, education, housing, develop-
ment of natural resources.
The New Needs
The bulk of the new needs are in this com-
petitive area. The fashionable notion is to claim
them all for the public store and to label them
public needs. The stafistics say otherwise. They
say in fact two things: First, the supply of this
group of goods and services has expanded very
rapidly in recent years; and second, they are be-
ing offered, in varying degrees, both by the pri-
vate and the public suppliers. Let us run down
the list.
Provision for old age is predominantly private.
The average American family, realizing that
while old age may be a burden, it is the only
known way to achieve a long life, takes care of
the matter in three ways: (1) by private individ-
ual savings— home ownership, savings deposits,
securities; (2) by private collective savings— life
insurance, corporate pension funds; and (3) by
public collective savings through social security.
Statisticians report that the two collective forms
are advancing faster than the individual. The in-
creases far exceed the rise in the Gross National
Product of almost 80 per cent (in current prices)
over the past ten years; they do not indicate
either that these needs are neglected or that they
are necessarily public in character.
Education: the bulk of it is public; but a
good part, particularly of higher education, is
private. Total expenditures for all education
have advanced in the last ten years from ,19.3
billi(m to $24.0 billion ($19.3 billion of it
jjubiic). Education's share in the national in-j
come has advanced from 3.8 per cent to 5.8 per!
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16
THE EASY CHAIR
cent. The silly story that we spend
more on advertising than on educa-
tion is a canard, though with its
gross of over SIO billion, advertising
does take a lot of money.
Health expenditures ore still
mainly prixiate. At considerable ex-
Dense, it is now possible to live
lono^er and be sick less frequently or
at least less dangerously. In the past,
"lost people paid their own doctors'
bills, although health care for the
indiejent has always been provided
by public action or private philan-
thropy. Since the war, the prolifera-
tion of health insurance has given
some form of collective but private
insurance to three-quarters of our
182 million people. This has greatly
reduced pressure for a national
health service along British lines.
For the aging, whose health-care
needs stand in inverse proportion to
their capacity to pay or insure, pub-
lic insurance has finally been initi-
ated and needs to be expanded. The
total annual expenditure on health
is estimated at over $25 billion, a
little more than on education. Of
this, about |6 billion is public.
So much for the allegation that
the "new needs" are all public needs.
Now for some further statistics on
the public store, which is said to
have been neglected. Some of them
could make an investor in private
growth stocks envious. Research ex-
penditures (mainly for defense and
atomic energy) have gone from about
$1 billion to over $8 billion in the
last ten years. Federal grants to the
states have advanced from $2.2 bil-
lion to $7 billion during the same
period. Social-security benefits rose
from SI billion to over $10 billion.
All in all, public cash outlays (fed-
eral and state) advanced from $61
billion to SI 34 billion over ten years,
57 per cent faster than the GNP.
For those who feel about public
spending the way Mark Twain felt
about whiskey, these figures may still
look slim. (Mark Twain thought that
while too much of anything was bad,
too much whiskey was barely
enough.) To others, the data may
suggest that the advocates of more
public spending have already had
their way. Could their present dis-
content be the result of a not keep-
ing their statistics up-to-date? Jn one
of his recent pamphkis, Arthur M.
Schlcsinger, Jr. claims thai ilie sinu
of the many neglects he observes (in-
cluding defense) could be mended by
raising public expenditures by $10 to
$12 billion. That is well below the
increase in public cash outlays that
actually did take place in one single
fiscal year, from $118.2 billion in
1958 to $132.7 billion in 1959. In
the three fiscal years 1957-59, these
outlays went up more than $31 bil-
lion, though the advance slowed
down in 1960. More facts and less
indignation might help to attain
better perspective.
Some parts of federal, state, and
local bvidgets have expanded less
rapidly than those cited— in many
cases fortunately. The massive build-
up in defense expenditmes from the
late 'forties to the 'fifties has
squeezed other programs. Unfor-
tunately, on the other hand, some
programs that both political parties
have favored— including aid to edu-
cation, to depressed areas, for urban
renewal— have been delayed unduly
by the vicissitudes of politics. But
the figures as a whole lend little sup-
port to the thesis that politicians
don't spend enough, and that the
government store is not expanding
fast enough.
The Citizen in the Stores
The two stores— private and public
—work very hard these days to cap-
ture the business of the citizen-tax-
payer. Here is what he hears as he
walks into the private store:
"The principal advantage of this
store," the private businessman says,
"is that you can shop around and
buy exactly what you want. If I don't
have it I'll order it. You, the con-
sumer, are the boss here. To be sure,
I'm not in business for charity but
for profit. But my profit comes from
giving you what you want. And with
competition as fierce as it is, you can
be sure the profit won't be exces-
sive."
If the proprietor has been to Har-
vard Business School, he will per-
haps remember to add something
about the invisible hand which in a
free economy causes the self-seeking
of competitors to work for the com-
mon good. He will also, even with-
out benefit of business school,
remember to drop a word about the
danger of letting the public store
across the street gel too big. It might
endanger freedom.
As the citizen turns this sales taU
over in his mind, several points occui
to him. Without denying the broac
validity of the argument, he wil
note that quite often he has beer
induced to buy things he did no
really need, and possibly to neglec
other, more serious needs. Snob ap
peal and built-in obsolescence pro
moted by expensive advertising don'
seem to him to fit in with the notioi
that the consumer is king. Lookinj
at the brand names and patents am
trademarks, he wonders whethe
most products are produced am
priced competitively instead o
under monopoly conditions. The ir
visible hand at times seems to be ir
visible mainly because it is so dee
in his pocket.
Bothered by these doubts, the ci
izen walks across the street and ei
» ters the public store.
"Let me explain to you," says tl
politician who runs it— with the ai
of a horde of hard-working burea
crats doing the chores. "The princ
pies on which this store is run a
known as the political process, ar
if you happen to be familiar wi
private merchandising they m
seem unusual, but I assure you th
work. First of all, almost every thii
in this store is free. We simply
sess our customers a lump sum in t
form of taxes. These, however, a
based largely on each customer's at
ity to pay, rather than on what
gets from the store. We have a sh(
of hands from the customers onc(
year, and the majority decides wl
merchandise the store is to have
stock. The majority, incidenta
also decides how much everybo
including particularly the minor
is to be assessed for taxes.
"You will observe," the politic
continues, "that this store is not i
for profit. It is like a co-operati
run for the welfare of the memb
I myself, to be sure, am not in p
tics for charity, but for re-electi
But that means that I must be
terested in your needs, or you wo
not vote for me. Moreover, there
some useful things that only I
do, with the help of the polit
process, and in which you and e''
citizen have an interest. For insta
everybody ought to go to schoc
can make them go. Everybody oi
to have old-age insurance. I
make that compulsory loo. And
I mathematicians have helped biochemists explore the
he heart of every living cell lies a strange substance which
ces the difference between an eye and a rose petal. Bio-
mists call it DNA. ■ To understand how living things grow
:n they are healthy (and what goes wrong when they are
I, scientists are searching for the relationship between DNA
proteins in the cell. This means analyzing the molecular
tns of thousands of different proteins, only a few of which
now known. ■ IBM mathematicians have cooperated with
hemists on the problem of protein analysis. They have
mysterious pattern-makers that give life its myriad forms.
applied principles of mathematical logic to masses of infor-
mation developed in the laboratory. Using the computer as a
tool, biochemists are hoping to piece together the identity
and sequence of all the atoms in the protein chain. These
methods could save years of laboratory labor and eventually
help doctors diagnose diseases. ■ As scientists, engineers
and businessmen reach for new advances Ir their fields, they
often are faced with enormous data handling problems and
look to computers and data processing systems for solutions.
IBM
what makes
a rose
a rose
■■■■
TJ ere is the newest All First Class liner to the Orient, the
11 long-awaited SS PRESIDENT ROOSEVELT. A block
and a half of seagoing luxury, it has everything you'd expect
to find at one of the world's best addresses — from ballrooms
to beauty shops, lanais to libraries, spacious lounges (even
a soundproof fun-room for teenagers!), cabarets, first-run
movies, and gourmet restaurants offering more dishes than
Louis XVI himself had to choose from.
There are nurses and nurseries, a completely equipped
hospital, a topside kennel, a swimming pool and volleyball
courts. Modern stabilizers give you lake-smooth sailing.
There are enough shops to serve a small town. And miles of
sun-swept deck space — every square foot of it First Class.
Naturally, each stateroom has its own private bath,
telephone, radio and, of course, air conditioning. As well
as 'round-the-clock room service at the touch of a button.
On the opposite page are sketches of the interior.
swatches give you an idea of the decor in each room.
Fares for round-trip cruises to the Orient be{
$1175; fares one way to Japan, at $510. To book pii
on the maiden voyage of the PRESIDENT ROOSE^
or any of the other President Liner sailings listed I
call your Travel Agent or write American President 1
3 1 1 California Street, San Francisco 4, for free bro(
from
SAN FRANCISCO
SAILING DATES:
PRESIDENT ROOSEVELT . . . .Jan.
PRESIDENT WILSON Jan.
PRESIDENT HOOVER Feb.
PRESIDENT CLEVELAND .... Feb.
PRESIDENT ROOSEVELT .... Feb.
from
LOS ANGELES
. .Jan. 13.
11.
26 - .
5 - .
13 Feb. 15.
28 - .
H(
..]
PRESIDENT WILSON Mar. 12 Mar. 14.
]
■^
AMERICAN PRL
OFFICES: SAN FRANCISCO • LOS AtK,
'lytliO Sailing from San Francisco to Honolulu, Yokohama, Hong Kong, Manit |
EATTI.E ,• PORTLAND
CHICAGO
BOSTON
NEW YORK
WASHINGTON, D.C.
H{
fj^msam
WEN VOYAC
Swatches indicate color sctiemes
e Arrangement
bedroom-sitting room suites convert in moments to
limodate from one to four. Ideal for shipboard enter-
g or for solitude. Complete with spacious, modern bath.
: warm browns, rust, beige, blues and burnished yellow.
Marine Veranda
This glass -enclosed veranda with its sweeping seascapes
opens out onto the sun-deck. By day a shaded lounge over-
looking the pool, at night it's transformed into a supper
club with music and dancing. Colors: mocha and turquoise.
Lounge
\\. room for casual conversation. Deep-cushioned sofas
jiairs make it your own private club at sea. The cool
md greens of the carpeting and upholstery, accented
[te drapes and yellow paneling, strike a tranquil note.
Double Stateroom
A master bedroom, complete with wide soft armchairs, radio,
telephone, air conditioning and 'round-the-clock room serv-
ice. Float on finest air foam as the sea lulls you gently to
sleep. Color scheme: warm browns, tan, rust, burnt orange.
^ THrSrTENT TN JANIIARY IMl
|i|prilini|Q Finding ways to make
ImUlIiIUUO communications more
efficient is an ITT specialty. In Belgium,
France and Switzerland, ITT companies
engineered and built the world's first nation-
wide and international subscriber-to-
subscriber dialing systems. And forthe Paris
network, ITT developed the world's first fully
electronic automatic private branch tele-
phone exchange. Here at home, ITT is a
major supplier to nearly 1,000 U.S. independ-
ent phone companies for equipment ranging
from PAX systems and handsets of every
variety to cable and huge switching systems.
All in all, more than 10 million lines of ITT
System automatic and manual switching
equipment are in use this minute serving
communications needs around the world.
, -gA >^ ^r^^-^ \
, -^^
y
..>--^
I #» *• * ^ r
••*.*., (*
».*•<•
Z?' ^\_--%. \
Zurich ^> ^\,j
•v.>r
^;y.z^/^i-A^i> J.
'■''•'f?rv
Mil^^
ITT's world-
wide organi
INTERNATIONAL
zation includes divisions and subsidiaries
throughout the United States and in the
following countries and territories in
Europe, Latin America, North America,
and the Far East: Argentina, Australia,
Austria, Belgium, Bolivia, Brazil, Canada,
Chile, Denmark, Finland, France,
Germany, Hong Kong, Iran, Italy, Mexico,
Netherlands, New Zealand, Norway, Peru,
Philippines, Portugal, Puerto Rico,
Republic of South Africa, Spain, Sweden,
Switzerland, Turkey, United Kingdom,
Venezuela, Virgin Islands.
IN TOTO
We are communications spe-
cialists. Our systems and
equipment span the earth, traverse its oceans,
orbit through its surrounding spaces. For
example: ITT companies design and make
electronic components; manage communica-
tions networks throughout the world; maintain
military warning systems; plan security counter-
measures; even produce and merchandise
consumer products. Chances are if the job
is in electronics/telecommunications an ITT
company has a role in it somewhere. Our full
name: International Telephone and Telegraph
Corporation. Address: 320 Park Avenue, New
York 22, New York.
ITT
09
je^«e-*^e'*^e-*«e/*«e'*«S'*«e^®e/*^e^®©'*^{;
•ZZrOTZTJID :E5E2>TO"S2a-3>TE^
THE EASY CHAIR
BAKED TO OEDEH
FOUYOUAITD i
YOUH FHIEUDS i
If your mouth waters for real FRUIT CAKE <
and you've never eaten DELUXE, you're in j
for a rare treat! Taste its oldtime goodness t
— the luscious fruits and fresh, plump Texas t
pecans, the richness of this delicacy. DE- I
LUXE is that "best of its kind" for your ]
holiday get-togethers, for friends dropping c
in. Baked to order, stays moist and delicious, j
rich in that wonderful "Christmas cake" S
aroma. i
Why not order your DELUXE Christmas j
cakes today. You can't go wrong because: J
Every DeLuxe is guaranteed the world's \
finest fruit cake, or your money hack. \
SEND YOUR LIST-WE DO THE REST c
Simply enclose your list, check or money order, and /
we'll ship these original cakes in oldtime Christmas tin, ^
postpaid and insured. We will enclose gift cards for you. i
2 lbs., $4.15; 3 lbs., $5.75; 5 lbs., $8.95. c
COLLIN STREET BAKERY 1
p. 0. Box 461, Corsicana, Texas \
please to refrain
from
accelerating
the taxi
There s no need for frenzied
fumbling with guidebook
phrases when you take a
Grace Line all-expense Jewel
Box (>asual Cruise-Tour to
South America. For 26 or 31
days you'll enjoy easygoing
luxury on a 52-passenger,
fully air-conditioned cargo-
liner "6Vi///«,'"and conducted
tours ashore in Panama, Co-
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all ne<;essary expenses pairl —
you just relax anri enjoy your-
self. .Sailings from Nf;w York
every other Friday. See your
Travel Agent. Grace Line,
3 Hanover Square, N. Y. 4.
cause I don't charge the full cost of
(he service, I can help even up a
little the ineciualities of life.
"By the way," the politician con-
( Imles, "if there is any special little
thing you want, I may be able to get
it for you, and of course it Avon't
cost you a nickel."
The citi/en has some fault to find
with the political process too. He
notes that there is not even a theoret-
ical claim to the benefits of an in-
\isiblc hand. Majority rule may pro-
duce benefits for the majority, but
how about the other 19 per cent?
Nor is there the discij^line of com-
])etiiion, or the need for profits, to
lest economy of operation. There is
no Avay, in the public store, of ad-
justing individual costs and benefits.
And the piomise to get him some
small favor, Avhilc tempting, worries
him, because he wonders what the
politician may have promised to
others. The political process, he is
led lo suspect, may be a little hap-
hazard.
He asks himself how political de-
cisions get to be made. Sometimes,
obviously, it is not the majoritv that
really makes a decision, but a small
pressure group that is getting away
with something. He will remember
that— after payments for major na-
tional security and public debt in-
terest—the largest single expenditure
in the federal budget is for agricul-
ture, and the next for veterans. He
may also recall that one of the first
budgetary actions of the new .Ad-
ministration was to increase funds
for agriculture by %?> billion.
The Expanding Belt
Next, the citi/en might consider
the paralyzing "balance-of-forces" ef-
fect that often blocks a desirable re-
shufflmg of expenditures. The allo-
cation of public funds reflects the
bargaining power of their sjjonsors,
inside or outside the government. .\
classical example was the division of
funds thai pievailed in the Defense
Dejxiiiment duiing the late 'forties.
Army, Navy, and Air Force were to
share in total resources in a way that
would maximize military potential.
By some strange coincidence, max-
lunwn poieniial was always achieved
by giving cadi scjvice the same
amojMii ol money. It took the Ko-
»ean VVai to break this stalemate.
What is the {ons((|uen( c of the
balance-of-forces effect? If the propo-
nents of one kind of expenditure
want to get more money for their
projects, they must concede an in-
crease also to the advocates of others.
More education means more high-
ways, instead of less; more air poAver
means more ground forces. To in-
crease a budget in one direction
only is as difficult as letting out one's
belt only on one side. The expan-
sion tends to go all around. What
this (omes down to is that politicians
are not very good at setting priori-
ties. Increases in good expenditures
are burdened with a political sur-
charge of less good ones.
The last-ditch survival power of
federal programs is a specially illumi-
nating instance of the balance of
forces. If a monument were built
in AVashington in memory of each
major federal program that has been
discontinued, the appearance of the
city Avould not be greatly altered.
In contrast, Avhen the Edsel doesn't
sell, production stops. But the gov-
ernment is still reclaiming land to
raise more farm surpluses and train-
ing fishermen to enter an occupation
that needs subsidies to keep aliAC.
Old federal programs never die, they
don't even fade aAvay— they just go
on.
The citi/en Avill remember also the
ancient and honorable practice of
logrolling. The unhappy fate of the
.\rea Develoj^ment bill illustrates it
admirably. .\s originally proposed,
the bill sought to aid a limited num-
ber of industrial areas where new
jobs Avere badly needed. It got no-
Avhere in the Congress. Only when
it Avas extended to a large number
of areas Avith less urgent or quite
different problems, Avere enough
legislators brought aboard to pass it.
Because of the heavy political sur-
charge Avith Avhich it had become
loaded. President EisenhoAver vetoed
the bill. .\ bill Avas finally enacted
early this year, long after aid shoidd
have been brought to the areas that
needed it.
Finally, the citi/en might discover
in some dark corner of his mind a
nagging thought: Any particular
government program may be a bless-
ing, but could their cumulative ef-
fect be a threat to freedom? He has
heaid businessmen say this so often
that he has almost cea.sed to pay
attention to it. He rather resents
I fV^ SCVlSrV ^kJ^TrS BOOK^ SOd^ pT:^ offers you the exceptional opportunity to
build what Andre Molraux described as "a museum without walls"— to enrich your home with the finest books on the arts— and at
substantial savings. The selections of The Seven Arts Book Society— like those pictured above— are all books of permanent value: oversize^
richly illustrated volumes with definitive texts. Moreover, as a member you will regularly enjoy savings of 30% and more.
fVhy not begin your trial membership today? Discover for yourself the great advantages of belonging to this unique organization.
You may begin your membership with any one of the magnificent books shown here at the special introductory price of $5.
^MASTERS OF WORLD ARCHITECTURE: VVrigh/, Good/, Nervl, Le Corfaus/er, Aalfo, and
Mies van der Rohe. 6 boxed vols., 7'A x 10, each containing 80 pp. of illus. and
an informafive 10,000 word text. Retail $29.75. Member's price $16.95.
^MASTERS OF WORLD ARCHITECTURE: Gropios, Neufra, Sullivan, Mendelsohn, and
Niemeyer. 5 boxed volumes, 7'A x 10, each containing 80 pp. of illus. and an
informative 10,000 word text. Retail $24.75. Member's price $14.95.
GREEK MASTERWORKS OF ART, Max Wegner. 190 pp., 10'/4 x 13V4, 166 illus.
(11 in color). Retail $12.50. Member's price $9.50.
KATSURA: TradHion and Culture in Japanese Arcbifecfure, Kenzo Tange. Introduction by
Walter Gropius. 250 pp., lOVa x 11, 160 pp. of superb photographs. Printed in
Japan, and bound in raw silk. Retail $15.00. Member's price $9.95.
THE ARCHITECTURE OF AMERICA: A Socio/ and Cultural History, John Burchard and
Albert Bush-Brown. 484 pp., 6'A x 9V2, 156 photos. Retail $15.00. Member's price $7.95.
THE COMPLETE BOOK OF ARTISTS' TECHNIQUES, Kurt Herberts. 169 illus.
(80 in full color), 8x8. 352 pp. Retail $15.00. Member's price $11.95.
MASTERWORKS OF JAPANESE ART, Charles S. Terry. 264 pp., 83/4 x 12, 100 illus.
(40 In color). Retail $17.50. Member's price $13.50.
THE ART OF HENRY MOORE, Will Grohmann. 284 pp., 8% x 11, 238 illus.
(including 12 full-page, 8-color lithographs). Retail $15.00. Member's price $11.95.
THE GREAT AMERICAN ARTISTS SERIES. Six handsomely boxed volumes with more
than 480 illustrations (96 in color): WINSLOW HOMER, ALBERT RYDER, THOMAS EAKINS,
WILLEM DE KOONING, STUART DAVIS, and JACKSON POLLOCK.
Retail $29.75. Member's price $16.95.
PABLO PICASSO, Wilhelm Boeck and Jaime Sabartes. 606 reproductions
(44 in full color), 524 pp., BVz x 12. Retail $20.00. Member's price $14.95.
MONET, by William C. Seitz. 93/4 x 123/4, 133 illustrations (48 in full color,
tipped-in). Retail $15.00. Member's price $11.95.
THE ARTIST IN HIS STUDIO, by Alexander Liberman. 39 foremost artists at work.
246 pp., 9% x 1234, 250 illustrations (50 in color). Retail $17.50. Member's price $12.50.
MODIGLIANI, Franco Russoli. Introduction by Jean Cocteau. 46 full page reproductions
(36 in color and tipped-ln), 11 x 14. Retail $15.00. Member's price $11.95.
REMBRANDT, Ludwig Munz. 50 tipped-in color reproductions, 21 etchings, 17 drawings,
22 text illustrations; 160 pp., 93/a x 123/4. Retail $15.00. Member's price $11.95.
THE TREASURIES OF CONTEMPORARY HOUSES, by the editors of Architectural Record.
2 volumes boxed, more than 1000 photographs, plans, and drawings (8 pp. in color),
452 pp., 9 X 12. Retail $14.50. Member's price $11.50.
^You may have both sets for only $9.95
choose any one$
for only
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NEW DESIGN IN
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25
THE EASY CHAIR
businessmen acting the dog in the
manger, trying to stop useful things
from being done unless they can do
them. He is irritated when he hears
a man talk about freedom who ob-
viously is thinking about profit.
And yet— is there any conclusive re-
buttal?
The Citizen's Failures
The citizen would be quite wrong,
however, if he blamed the politician
for the defects of the political proc-
ess. The fault lies with the process,
or better with the way in which the
process, the politician, and the citi-
zen interact. The citizen therefore
would do well to examine some of
Ins own reactions and attitudes.
First, when he thinks about taxes,
he tends to think of them as a bur-
den instead of as a price he pays for
a service. As a body, the nation's
taxpayers are like a group of neigh-
bors who decide to establish a fire
department. Because none is quite
sure how much good it will do him,
and because each hopes to benefit
from the contribution of the rest, all
are prudent in their contributions.
In the end they are likely to wind
up with a bucket brigade.
But when it comes to accepting
benefits, the citizen-taxpayers act like
a group of men who sit down at a
restaurant table knowing that they
will split the check evenly. In this
situation everybody orders gener-
ously; it adds little to one's own
share of the bill, and for the ex-
travagance of his friends he will
have to pay anyhow. What happens
at the restaurant table explains—
though it does not excuse— what hap-
pens at the public trough.
Finally, in his reaction to public
or free services, the citizen takes a
great deal for granted, and seldom
thinks of the cost. Public beaches
mistreated, unmetered parking space
permanently occupied, veterans' ad-
justment benefits continued without
need— as well as abuses of unem-
ployment compensation and public
assistance— are some examples. This
applies also, of course, to privately
offered benefits, under health insur-
ance, for instance. The kindly nurse
in the hospital— "Why don't you stay
another day, dearie, it won't cost
you anything, it's all paid for by
Blue Cross"— makes the point.
By removing the link between
costs and benefits, the political proc-
ess also reduces the citizen's interest
in earning money. The citizen works
to live. If some of his liviog comes
to him without working, he would
be less than rational if he did not
respond with a demand for shorter
hours. If these public benefits in-
crease his tax burden so that his
over-all standard of living remains
unchanged, the higher taxes will re-
duce his work incentive. Why work
hard, if much of it is for the govern-
ment?
The Political Dollar at a Discount
These various defects of the politi-
cal process add up to an obvious
conclusion: the dollar spent by even
the most honest and scrupulous of
politicians is not always a full-bodied
dollar. It often is subject to a dis-
count. It buys less than it should
because of the attrition it suffers as
it goes through the process, and so
may be worth only 90 cents or 80
cents and sometimes perhaps less.
The private dollar, in too many
cases, may also be worth less than
100 per cent. But here each man can
form his own judgment, can pick
and choose or refuse altogether. In
the political process, all he can do is
say Yes or No once a year in Novem-
ber.
The discount on the public dollar
may be compensated by the other
advantages of government— its abil-
ity to compel, to subsidize, to do
things on a big scale and at a low
interest cost. Whether that is the
case needs to be studied in each in-
stance. Where these advantages do
not apply, the private market will
give better service than the political
process. For many services, there is
at least some leeway for choice be-
tween the private and public store-
health and retirement, housing, re-
search, higher education, natural-
resource development. Defense, on
the other hand, as well as public
administration, public works of all
kinds, and the great bulk of educa-
tion—while perhaps made rather
expensive by the political process-
leave no realistic alternative to pub-
lic action.
The argument I have offered is no
plea to spend more or less on any
particular function. It is a plea for
doing whatever we do in the most
effective way.
In October . . . Some Television
Programs of Special Interest
crimes indicated are current N. Y. Time)
'*The Life of Ernest Hemingway"
A biographical study, witli dramatized
excerpts from his works.
Sunday, October 1 (10-11 PM)
"The Mysterious Deep"
The sea's potential yield for mankind.
Sunday, October 1 and 8 (6-6:30 PM)
"World Series Preview"
Tuesday, October 3 (10:30-11 PM)
"Brandenburg Gate"
Drama set against the Berlin crisis.
Wednesday, October 4 (10-11 PM)
"The Spiral Staircase"
Dramatization based on the motion picture.
Wednesday, October 4 (10-11 PM)
"Sound of the Sixties"
Our way of life in the next decade. Producer,
Dore Schary; with John Daly, Art Carney,
Tony Randall and Andre Previn.
Monday, October 9 (10-11 PM)
"People Need People"
Original drama of conflict in a psychiatric
experiment.
Tuesday, October 10 (10-11 PM)
"Feathertop"
Musical based on a story by Hawthorne.
Thursday, October 19 (8:30-9:30 PM)
"Macbeth"
Maurice Evans and Judith Anderson in a
repeat presentation.
Friday. October 20 (8:30-10:30 PM)
"Merrily We Roll Along"
Groucho Marx narrates the story of Ameri*
ca's love afi"air with the automobile.
Sunday, October 22 (10-11 PM)
"The Dispossessed"
The American Indian's struggle for citizen*
ship; an original drama by Saul Levitt.
Tuesday, October 24 (10-11 PM)
"The Power and the Glory"
Laurence Olivier in a new adaptation of the
novel by Graham Greene.
Sunday, October 29 (9-11 PM)
"Russian Assault on the Antarctic"
Exclusive films of the first Soviet base OQ
the treacherous ice shelf.
Monday, October 30 (7-7:30 PM)
Regularly Scheduled
Mon.-Fri.: Contemporary Mathematics
American Government
The New Biology
Mondays : Expedition !
Tuesdays: Close-Up! [Alternate weeks]
Wednesdays: David Brinkley's Journal
Thursdays: CBS Reports
Fridays: Eyewitness
Frank McGee's Here & Now
Saturdays: Update
Accent
Sundays: Camera Three
Meet the Professor
Washington ConversatiOQ
Directions "62
Adlai Stevenson Reports/
Issues and Answers
Patterns in Music
Wisdom
Chet Huntley Reporting
The Twentieth Century
Meet the Press
1. 2, 3— Go!
Walt Disney's Wonderful
World of Color
Note: Times, programs, titles, and casts are sub-
ject to change. Please consult local listings.
Television Information Office
666 Fifth Ave., New York 19, N.Y.
A Special Advertisement For A Particular Audience
Harold Lamb is a familiar figure the world over as historian, writer and' reconstructor
of the ancient and medieval past. His fifteen books include HANNIBAL, CYRUS
THE GREAT, GENGHIS KHAN, CHARLEMAGNE and THE CRUSADES.
"El Cid
r*^
hy
HAROLD LAMB
iNo one, ever, was quite like him.
He came out of the farmlands beneath the Pyrenees
nine hundred years ago to become the invincible cham-
pion of his people— it is said that "no foe prevailed
against him". Spain, the nation he helped create, made
him its hero. Europe wove his story into a deathless
peador which means victor of the battlefield. So, in the
opinion of his foes, he was at the same time a merciful
lord and a ruthless fighter. One of them, a Moor, stated:
'"This man, the scourge of our time, was by his clear-
eyed force, his strength of spirit and heroism, a miracle
of the miracles of tl\e Almighty."
It was a merciless age. In the land that would be
Hrroic slalui- represents the valianl LI Ci(l~aiid motion lecture caplures fiis glory and gallantry
legend. Yet we Americans hardly know who he was,
mufh less what he did. Only in the last lew years has
history made dear (he lileol (hisman, Kodrigode Hivar.
The times of El Cid Cnmi>eador
His enemies nanud hirn /•./ Cid, which means The
Lo)d-\)(>m the ,\rabi( /•/ srid—Awd they added Cam-
Spain, successive waves of Moslems had thrown the
small Christian kingdoms, Leon, Castile, Navarie,
Aragon, and others, back against the barrier of the
Pyrenees. The land itself was drained by jietiy con(li( is
wherein Moslems and Christians alike formed kalei-
df)sc()pic patterns of alliaiues and eimiilies.
Here, the Cid fought his battle, alone. In his \oiiili.
I
A Special Advertisement For A Particular Audience
he had an odd vision. It seemed to him as if the bloody
weker of peoples around him could be brought together
in tolerance. And if so, a great nation could be shaped
around them. Perhaps ruled by a single Christian king.
Unlike Jeanne d'Arc of a later day, Rodrigo knew no
Spain began to form around Toledo with Moorish
provinces to the south. While the crusades ebbed and
flowed in battle upon the coast of Palestine, Spain
protected now from invasion, became a junction be-
tween the arts of the cultured Arabs and the seeking
PRINT! THE BETTMANN ARCHIVE
Steel engrafiiisr depicts El Cid's entry into citadel and this spectacular scene is now recreated.
name for his nation, nor identity for his king.
Life Story of a W orld Hero
Like a prophet without honor in his own country.
El Cid found himself alone in his convictions. Sparing
the lives of some captive Moors, he was branded a
traitor. Desperate to remove the stigma from his name,
he defeated the champion of a rival kingdom in mortal
combat and was hailed "Campeador". Still, as champion
in arms, persisting in printi the bettmann archive
his fight for mutual tol
of a Europe emerging from monasticism to embark
upon discovery.
Almost at once, strange voices gave their testimony
to the man, now called a hero, who had held his shield
before the people of Spain. The cantares sang of him
that when the ban of the king was laid upon those
aiding him a girl of nine years appeared to guide him
on his way; when he hungered, a feast w^as laid in a
cottage home. The songs found a name for his horse,
surely a white stallion— ^aZ^/ecrt— and for his swords—
Tizona and Colada.
erance, he faced the en-
mity of his own peers
and the hatred of his
beloved Lady Chimene.
The malignant envy
of his king, Alfonso of
Castile, exiled Rodrigo g^^wvinr^
to wander between cas- J;>I "
ties and battlefields of
hostile lands. There
Lady Chimene, joining
him at last, had to be
sent from his outcast
army. So misfortune
came with each attempt
of the Cid to follow out
his vision. And, exiled
from each other, the
love of the Cid and
Chimene sustained them wuth the hope of finding some
where a place of their own, and each other.
Their love story has become a legend.
Testimony of a song
History tells us that the Cid's dream was realized not
long after his death, when the great Christian state of
One was surely a Mos-
lem blade and the other
Christian! The songs
echoed words of his:
"Look ye, all, at the
bloodied sword, the
sweating steed — in this
manner are the Moors
overcome on the field
of battle!"
Out of the songs rose
the Poema del Mio Cid,
the Poem of My Cid.
To lords of manors and
cottages alike, he had
become My Cid. Like
the Song of Roland, it
passed national boun-
daries. Christian Eu-
labled romance between El Cid and Lady Chimene comes to life! roDC knew him aS the
warrior Avho would not accept defeat. As happened
upon the morning when the knights at his side were
stricken by the sight of the invading Almoravides, their
foes, and the Cid said to them, "Do not fear! This is a
glorious day." And at the coming of death, he said to
them with hope, "Let us go among the people who
endure forever."
A Special Advertisement For A Particular Audience
Ihe Pocina is legend, but it reveals to us the truth,
so long obscured by misreading of history, of the vision
of the Cid that came to fulfilment only after, and by, his
death. The Poemn, echoing a thousand voices, has made
certain that the story of the Cid will endure forever.
Samuel Bronston was the first producer to believe
that the stirring human story of the Cid could be filmed.
There was no preced-
*^! ^^,.v*H^^ * ent for it, and likewise
no understanding on
the part of audiences
throughout the world
of what was being at-
tempted. Bronston,
however, had faith that
those audiences could
be drawn into the
world of the Cid, made
real. Anthony Mann,
director of the great en-
terprise, was already an
eager convert. The story
had a way of making
converts, perhaps be-
cause nothing quite like
it had been attempted.
Robert Krasker's restless cameras that had revealed the
pageantry in Heyiry V and the lovers in Romeo and
Juliet brought out the lovers and the human conflict
lirhitul-the-sceiifs of El Cid.
its hero. The bright sun of Spain still sheds a medieval
after-gloAv. Castle backgrounds of El Cid are actual
survivors of his time, although one cathedral had to
be rebuilt. Villagers, still in medieval homes, it seems,
found it quite simple to look and behave like their
far-off ancestors. So a cavalry charge in El Cid looks
lifelike, because some seventeen hundred members of
the Spanish army did the riding. The black invasion
fleet from Africa sails in to the Valencia shore with
purpose because it is made up from a fishing fleet of
that shore. The skill of the art directors, John Moore
and Veniero Colasanti, brought out every vista.
Ranging as they did from coast to coast in the shoot-
ing, the makers of El Cid have searched out all vestiges
of his Avanderings. Sight of a roadside shrine, sound of
a vespers bell. Swords of the knights were forged in a
Toledo foundry; banners and pennants were em-
broidered in the old patterns by skilled hands of coun-
trywomen. This reality of objects adds to the sense that
the whole is real, and that you have been drawn into
another age where anything may happen.
The other age ^
In the eleventh century, a belted knight was no mere
fighting machine; he acted also as judge, and protector,
or despoiler, of others, as his inclination might be.
A country had no vast bureaucracy to govern it; one
man, the king, did what he could, with any vassals he
(ould get to help. The Spanish Campeador accepted
Star Charlton Heston engages in perilous sii
in El Cid against the backdrop of the armed conflict.
To me, after seeing the scenes available in Madrid,
the people, Charlton Heston and Sophia Loren and
all the others, come alive in their old world setting.
Watching ihem, you arc drawn to them and you feel
lor theiTi.
Perhaps because there is nothing familiar in it, this
jiicturc gripped me as no other had done.
The country was the stage,
fiaslies in Spain, knights with baiuiers— all become
rral in \he scenes of /•:/ Cid, leading lo (he unthink-
able climax.
Spain jt'.rK f r>nli ibni' •' <" i!"
.iJJj^C.II .MK (• o
ordplay and learns the ancient sport of falcaniy.
responsibility for all who joined him— "to be given their
bread"— and the burden of defending wounded Spain
against the invasion from Africa, while he tried to
guide the king who persecuted him.
The Cid look no thought for personal revenge. His
victories with the two-handed sword meant nothing
unless they brought his vision nearer.
"But if I act with pride—"
So many others looked to the Cid for help that he!
Avas forced to act as their ruler, without title. In the!
dee])ening crises, his decisions became, as it were, com-
mand dec isions. People cried out their need of a cham-
pion, a jiisi judge, and leader. At Valencia, the Cid
A Special Advertisement For A Particular Audience
offered the crown of the kingdom. He refused it.
[e was a man who followed his conviction without
ipromise. He endured defeat, but would not accept
jat. He endured the scorn of the nobility of Castile,
e, persecution, and in the end death. He endured
his manner because
lada blind faith that
I would strengthen
hand if he did the
It thing.
'he Cid was thought
e outcast because he
ce the Arab speech
held to Islamic law
ivell as Christian.
no man was more
out in his Christian
h. When he rode in-
he hazard of life in
great tournament,
believed that God
1 not his sword
dd decide the mat-
tor him.
O when he had won Archers of El Cicl inspire
key city of Valencia by guile more than force, he
ilained: "If I act lawfully, God will leave me Valen-
cia; but if I act with pride and injustice, I know He
will take the city away from me."
We live today in an age that avoids personal respon-
sibility. What happens to us we blame on others. In
the popular skepticism, our theatre and literature seek
reality in the cult of
the defeated. Uncon-
sciously, in our malaise
of mind, we may be
drifting back to the
archaic Greek concept
that man is powerless
before Fate — or supe-
rior force.
Nine hundred years
ago the Cid dedicated
himself to responsibil-
ity for all others around
him, for his country,
and king.
This is no drama of
a bygone age. It chal-
lenges our own time in
its dedication of a man
a draniniic tapestry. tO a selflcss task.
Through the magic of the screen, in light and sound,
the vision of the Cid touches us today.
1 liousand-year-old costumes mid armor are reproduced leitfi authciUicily.
CHARLTON HESTON and SOPHIA LOREN in SAMUEL BRONSTON'S "EL CID"
also starring RAF VALLONE- GENEVIEVE PAGE
.o-starrir>g JOHN ERASER • GARY RAYMOND • HURD HATFIELD • MASSIMO SERATO and HERBERT LOM
music by MIKLOS ROZSA • written by FREDRIC M. FRANK and PHILIP YORDAN • directed by ANTHONY MANN
m SUPER TECHNIRAMA- TECHNICOLOR'- a SAMUEL BRONSTON PRODUCTION • in association with DEAR FILMS PRODUCTIONS
distributed by ALLIED ARTISTS
30
"LILY OF THE VALLEY"
Short-stemmed flower vase of heavy
lead crystal from Sweden.
Delicately engraved. 4" high. $12.50.
Mail orders invited. Add 75c for postage.
Please write /or our Gift Catalog.
_^ 667 FIFTH AVENUE NEW YORK 22. N.YJ
^^^WILMOT RIDGE, SCARSDALE, N.Y.
JENSB]
Books Children Love
come from the
F.A.O. SCHWARZ
ffi££ Children's Book
*- Catalogue
a SCHWARZ 1
World's Greatest Toy Store
745 Fifth Ave., N. Y. 22, N. Y. • Boston, Mass.
Ardmore, Pa. • Cleveland, Ohio • Atlanta, Ga.
Palm Beach, Fla. • Short Hills, N. J.
Westchester, N. Y.
Please send me wifhouf obligation the Chil-
dren's Book Cafalogue lisfing hundreds of
books graded by age and interest.
Name.
AFTER HOURS
THE CASE OF THE
VANISHING PRODUCT
TH E surprising thing about the
best contemporary advertising
is the way in which The Product is
being shunted into the background.
In the 39th Annual of Advertising
and Editorial Art and Design * a
remarkable number of the adver-
tisements give not so much as a clue
to what is being advertised. An
amazing reticence seems to have
overtaken our advertisers; a new dis-
cretion veils their efforts to whip up
the consumer's flagging will to con-
sume.
The 39th Annual displays an in-
tense preoccupation with objects:
keys, clocks, corkscrews, kiosks, bal-
loons, musical instruments, stones,
telephones, birdcages, wineglasses,
eggs, chairs, cups and saucers, pin-
ball machines, Greek statues, old
buildings, whisk brooms, candles,
dice, giant strawberries. None of
these things is being offered for sale.
Instead they are the means by which
we are to conceive of other things
which are being offered for sale—
typically nowhere in sight. The very
high level of abstraction in con-
temporary advertising both confers
a new freedom upon designers and
• Published in the (:iil (A 19G0 by the
Art Directors Cliil) of New York (Fiiriar,
Str:ius& Ciidiiliy, SIT)). The /Oth Arniiuil
will be out before the end ol this year.
increases the possibility of ambiguity
in its use.
How does the New York Times
present itself to the public, once it
has decided to advertise? By means
of a handsome Robert Frank photo-
graph of children playing in Cen-
tral Park. What has this to do with
the Times? The copy strains to make
a connection: "New York is up in
Central Park. New York is out
in the suburbs. New York is five
million families, growing, want
ing, needing, buying. New York is
the New York Times. . . ." This non-i
sense is dignified, if that's possible,'
by the illustration; the product is
seen through the photograph (which
is, appropriately, both good and
gray). It is a case of gilt by associa
tion.
It might be argued that this is an,
"institutional" piece, which must be
constructed after different laws thar
those governing "selling" pieces. Bui
the fact that there are institutional
ads at all is itself an instance olj
the disappearance of the product
of the n^-w prominence of the side
show, the diversion. In more thar
half the pieces, institutional or other
wise, illustrated in the advertising
sections of this collection, what i:
being offered for sale is not identifi
able at a glance. Instead there an
symbolic constructions, many o
them very nearly opaqug.
Que presents a huge cup of coffee
dominating iwo-thiids of the page
1 he legend reads: "What ever hap
:ned to the nickel cup of coffee?"
lie product, however, is not coffee
It a gasoline called Speedway 79
iper Regular, and the idea seems
be that in these days of higher
id higher prices. Speedway 79 is a
irgain. The ad (by Saul Bass) is a
r)del of careful design and clean
pography; the product is deftly
ncealed until the last possible mo-
snt. Another piece, done by the
)yle Dane Bernbach agency for the
,GWU, institutional in character,
iplays a grandmotherly woman
th a baby on her lap. The photo-
;iph is arresting, harsh, and full
contrast. What is being pushed
re? Grandmothers? Babies? Not at
. The product is unionism, and
s copy, in a spectacidar imagina-
e leap, makes the point: 'Trom
byhood On, This Is the Label
lat Will Be Sewn Into Your Life."
Examples of product concealment
oinid. A full-page ad for Dee
oriswear, done in primer style
th a trumjjet, a bird, a carriage,
tree, a fly, and other objects
med in three languages, also con-
ns, almost as an afterthought, a
itary item of sportswear. Another,
h the same concern, is illustrated
th a huge hotel key and reads
iply: "Be Our Guest." We are
t to speculate as to why we should
ept this eager hospitality; pei-
ps because our hosts are such
jssy, casual advertisers.
Probably the most secretive of all
f-budget space buyers is General
namics, which in a few short years
^ built an enviable reputation in
leld that, I suspect, few readers of
advertisements could define,
lat does General Dynamics do?
haps the information is classified,
e ads are masterpieces of their
d. One juxtaposes what looks
e the central cortex of a computer
h a photograph of a soaring
ket. We are left to infer that Gen-
1 Dynamics is beautiful and im-
tant (the ads are beautiful and
portant) and that we are lucky to
ke it around. But sometimes un-
asant side effects intrude. The
le of these glittering affairs is so
interested, costly, noble, and high-
^ded (another shown in this coi-
tion mentions Gandhi and the
iceful uses of atomic energy) that
perversely suspect a bad con-
mce. What's going on over at
neral Dynamics, anyhow?
A TENNESSEE LOG TRUCK is headed for
Jack Daniel's rick yard with hard maple for
smoothing out our old-fashioned sippin' whiskey.
CHARCOAL
MELLOWED
Every so often, trucks bring hard maple
down to our rick yard to be sawed, stacked
and burned in the open air. The special
charcoal produced is packed tightly in vats
10 feet deep, and our whiskey is trickled in.
Ten days later, out it seeps . . . sippin'
smooth even before aging. This is
Charcoal Mellowing, a slow and costly
process. But we believe you'll agree it's
worth it, once you've sipped Jack Daniel's.
© 1961, Jack Daniel Distillery, Lem Motlow, Prop., Inc.
TENNESSEE WHISKEY . 90 PROOF BY CHOICE
DISTILLED AND BOTTLED BY JACK DANIEL DISTILLERY • LYNCHBURG (POP. 384), TENN,
y
DROP
BY DROP
J^^
Chamois
Cloth Shirt
Looks and feels
like high grade
chamois leather.
Will not shrink.
More durable
than wool. Mr.
Bean personally
uses this shirt on
his hunting and
j fishing trips. Col-
ors: Tan and
Bright Red. Sizes:
14H to 19. Price:
) $5.85 Postpaid.
i Send for free
sample and Free
Catalog.
Free Fall Catalog
Hunters and
campers will find
many practical
items in our 116
page fully illus-
trated Fall Cata-
log. Shows hunt-
ing footwear,
clothing and 400
items of interest
to both men and
women. 135 items
are of our own
manufacture.
I. L. Bean, Inc., 384 Main St., Freeport, Maine
Mfra. Hunting and Camping Specialties
AFTER HOURS
Jmports destined jor attire
Arrive from all creation.
But jor the best, you should encluire
The port of embarkation I
The finest woollens come from Britain.
When buying clothes look for
Fabrkt forttmr in Fathion
6 Eait 45th Strmt, N«w York 17. -Uw York
I don't mean to imply that prod-
uct-less advertising is the norm,
only that it seems to be increasing,
that advertisers seem less and less
interested in getting right down to
the dog-biscuit-and-cornflakes of the
thing. This is a break for those to
whom the fascination of cornflakes
muttering to themselves in a bowl
(with fresh fruit and plenty of milk)
is less than total. These people
would probably rather go for a
romp with, say, the Whimsey Dis-
tillers of Ireland, who give you a
bit of a run for your money.
In these pages entertainments of
the latter type are well represented.
IBM explains how Blaise Pascal
fathered the science of probability;
American Cyanamid ushers us
around Cyanamid-Land; we eaves-
drop as two Tennielish tigers con-
verse about I. Miller ("Marvelously
exciting . . ."); Bernard Buffet pops
up with one of his skeletal paintings
for Verve Records; and there are
puzzles to solve from Whitehouse
& Hardy ("The crime in room
608"), Girltown ("Where have you
been, Emily Ann?"), and CBS ("How
do you get to New York?"). As
Robert Benchley remarked of the
headlines in French newspapers,
not only do they not tell you any-
thing, they ask you questions. De
Beers Consolidated Mines has pro-
duced one of the book's most forth-
right entries; it shows a diamond
growing on a tree.
One question remains. Why is
there diffidence about the product?
Why is it being kept under wraps?
Perhaps it is simply that selling by
indirection has been found to be
effective; certainly larger, more po-
etic statements can be made if the
product is not dominating the pic-
ture. The professionals themselves
may be bored with the crudities of
the past. Artists and art directors,
with their sophisticated attitudes to-
ward communication, may be run-
ning away with the business of ad-
vertising, leaving copy writers, ac-
count executives, and the like to
trail along behind, lamely making
what sales points they can.
Perhaps there is another reason.
The Canadian anthropologist Ed-
mund Carpenter has suggested that
selling in advertising is frequently
a side issue. "If we think of ads as
designed solely to sell products," he
says, "we miss their main effect: to
increase pleasure in the consumption
of the product. Coca-Cola is far
more than a cooling drink; the con-
sumer participates, vicariously, in a
much larger experience. In Africa, in
Melanesia, to drink a Coke is to
participate in the American way of
life."
If this is so, the current shyness
of our advertisers becomes somewhat
easier to understand. It is not sc
surprising that, living in a land ol
plenty within a circle of povert)
and near or actual starvation, Amer
icans should be self-conscious abou
their fabulous consumption, an(
that advertisers should be caution
in reminding us of it.
—Donald Barthelmi
PRECIOUS THROWAWAY
SEVERAL years ago I ask(
Roger Butterfield, the author
The American Past and a disti
guished collector of Americar
where he thought I might pick i
some nineteenth-century books
etiquette. He referred me to a boc
seller named Lawrence B. Romai
of Middleboro, Massachusetts, a
in doing so he introduced me to
world of collecting that I scarce
knew existed. Mr. Romaine answer
my inquiry by saying that some rai
day he'd look through his barn a
see if he had any manners books (
found thirteen) and he put me
his list to receive his catalogues.
The catalogues, ten or tweJ
mimeographed sheets usually listi
several hundred items, are not in I
least like any booksellers' catalogi
that I had ever seen. In the fi
place they reflect Mr. Romair
i
33
AFTER HOURS
moods and temperaments, his good
clays and his bad ones, as the lists are
interspersed with comments, some-
limes wry, occasionally enthusiastic.
But the most curious aspect of the
:atalogues are that very few of the
items listed in them are what are
ommonly considered books. Mr.
t^omaine has a specialty about which
le is passionate and about which he
las become, it can be safely said, the
idiimate living authority. His pas-
|,ion is for manufacturers' trade cata-
pgues . . . the booklets, pamphlets,
md tomes that list, illustrate, and
lescribc the products and wares of
nanufacturers and distributors. A
ew years ago, Mr. Romaine says
yith scorn, an historian of American
)usincss had described such items as
'too ephemeral in value to warrant
he cost of saving them." But to Mr.
lomainc, and a growing nmnbcr of
onverts, they are the incontroverti-
>le evidence of "the creative ability,
inagination, and Yankee ingenuity
•f the bin'lders of this Republic."
To demonstrate that this is a
erious matter, Mr. Romaine has re-
enily produced (and R. R. Bowker
-omjiany has published) A Guide to
imerican Trade Catalogues, 1744-
900, a volume that is likely to re-
lain a standard work for many
ears and, since it is the first of its
ind, a basic work forever. It lists,
ith the 160 libraries in America
here they may be found, some
0,000 trade catalogues ranging in
ibject matter over the entire spec-
"um of American business up to
900. The list is broken down into
>me sixty-two categories (everything
om ".\gricultural Implements &
fachinery" to "Dental Instru-
lents," "Ornamental Ironwork,"
Washing Machines," and "Wind-
lills"); many of the categories have
ibdivisions, and each has an in-
oductory note. Mr. Romaine had
is troubles deciding under which
eading to put certain catalogues.
or example at the heading of the
Jiapter on "Hardware— Miscellane-
j us Machinery, Engines & Supplies"
e writes:
>
»i
ID
If you bought your last birdcage in
a hardware store, don't assume that
all birdcages are considered hardware
by the world at large. There are lots
of them illustrated in catalogue
under House Furnishings, Depart
mcnt Stores, and even Jewelry.
.-^^S::^
/. PRESS SHIRTS
J. PRESS SHIRTS carry
the endorsement of 59
years of confirmed cus-
tomers. In the careful
needlework and fine
Combed Cotton fabrics
of many thousand doz-
ens they have found
unequalled appearance,
service and comfort.
Of exclusive make —
J. PRESS SHIRTS are
unobtainable elsewhere.
Direct Mail Orders to Box
A, 262 York St., New
Haven, Conn. State collar
and sleeve size. Add 75c
mailing cost. Send for Il-
lustrated Color Brochure.
Coat style with
broad back pleat,
button down col-
lar, button flap
pocket and button
cuffs.
Block Stripe Cotton Oxford.
Blue or Olive on White. $7.50
Pencil Striped Cotton Oxford.
Blue or Old Gold on White. $7.50
Fine Cotton Oxford Tattersalls.
Navy & Marine Blue on White or
Black & Red on White $7.50
T 1
W M:...
Candy Stripe Cotton Madralyte.
Sky Blue on White $7.50
Cotton Uxford.
White, Blue or
Gold $6.75
Pullover style.
White or Blue $7
262 York St. New Haven
82 Mt. Auburn St. Camb'ridge
341 Madison Ave. New York
Coast to Coast Travel Exhibits
CVRREIST
Cincinnati
Netherland-Hilton Hotel
October 1 1th & 12th
Columbus
Dcshler-Hilton Hotel
October 9th & 10th
Detroit
Sheraton-Cadillac Hotel
October 9th & 10th
Indianapolis
Sheraton-Lincoln Hotel
October 11th & 12th
EXHIBITS
St. Louis
Bel Air Motel
October 13th & 14th
Seattle, Wash.
Olympic Hotel
October 11th, 12th & 13th
Washington, D. C.
Willard Hotel
October 16th & 17th
Exhibit Dates For 31
Other Cities On Request.
CATALOG
From The
World's Greatest
Toy Store
OVER
100 PAGES
To be mailed
after Oct. 15
Send Today!
SCHWARZ
745 Fifth Ave., at 58th St., New York 22, N. Y.
Dept. HP-1
Nome-
Add r
City_
-State.
I
- I
I
34
BRING BACK
A LUCKY STAR
FROM EUROPE
Going to Europe this winter for business...
for'the season'.. .for skiing and other winter
sports? Then make your very first move a
call to your local authorized Mercedes-
Benz dealer, for his new, exclusive 3-way
travel service.
Right now, your Mercedes-Benz dealer
can 1) help you plan your itinerary from
start to finish 2) make all travel and hotel
reservations for you, and 3) order the
Mercedes-Benz of your choice for Euro-
pean delivery.
When you place your order now, your
new car will await you in Europe. You will
tour Europe in Mercedes-Benz style. You
will get full European savings. And on your
return, your new treasure will have an in-
terested "home dealer' for service and
care. Why not pick up the telephone now
and arrange a selection session with your
dealer? He is listed in the Yellow Pages.
MERCEDES-BENZ SALES, INC.
A subsidiary of
Studebaker-Packard Corporation, South Bend, Indiana
DiGENS NYHETER.
T<>d.-!g'e<j di»t! 20 -septtjwtWij
[lONTEN I
ptjev spf^
\ fie iegat fori
x.
)rakfii Aiaergeneral
"Wcyied-wii
HINi
f
\n.
k-
"^"^^^H
mtk,..
»««-
*» '■■
^^..
#w4.-
lA
*» -.
'm
umumbi
ed fiyi
i US/
COGNAC
BRANDY
\ [)F n^^
In Stockholm and other world capitals, Hine Cognac's dry
delight makes this export of France the unquestioned choice ^^a
of discriminating' perjple.
'2r Brands Jnc. n
Y. C. COGNAC BRANDY • 84 PROOF
AFTER HOURS
Mr. Romaine's delight in his sub-
ject is evident on every page of his
catalogue but he is scornful of those
who think that catalogues began
with Sears Roebuck. "The first real
trade catalog," he writes in his in-
troduction, "is Benjamin Franklin's
1744 catalog of books." Or, at least,
it is the earliest catalogue he has
been able to locate, though he thinks
it likely there were earlier ones and
Franklin's has survived because of
the eminence of its producer. "If a
complete history of American manu-
facture is ever to be compiled," he
writes, "American trade catalogs
will unquestionably be one of the
most valuable sources of material i
available." '
BUT trade catalogues are a great
deal more than just items in the his-
tory of manufacture. They are social
history and a great many of them are
the history of design and public
taste as well, especially those dealing
with building materials and hous(
furnishings. It is not without signifi
cance that the preface to Mr. Ro
maine's catalogue is written by A
Hyatt Mayor, the curator of print
of the Metropolitan Museum of Art
or that in the Metropolitan's prin
collection are many trade catalogues
some of which I have had the pleaj|
ure of examining. I asked Mr. Mayo
why he had collected them for th
museum, and he said, "Some da^
when the American Wing become
interested in the nineteenth centun
these are going to be essential refe:
ence books for them."
The surface, one feels, has onl
just been scratched. There are man
libraries in America that have co
lections of catalogues stuck away i
cartons, unsorted and unclassified b
cause there are no funds availab
for cataloguing them. But boo
sellers and private collectors ha""
caught on. Don't think that you c.i
get into the trade-catalogue collec
ing business for a song. Catalogu
are not cheap— good ones, early on
are rare. But if you mean businc
(either to buy or to sell), more ai
more dealers in Americana will I
delighted to talk with you, and r
guess is that most of them will en
suit Mr. Romaine's catalogue bcfo
closing a deal.
—Russell Lyr
Harper's Christmas Shopping Service
o
nee again Harper's has arranged to
simplify your Christmas shopping! By
filling in the coupon below, you can obtain
catalogues irom any of the stores listed.
The stores have limited supplies of cata-
logues; for this reason we urge you to mail
the coupon before October 21st. Cata-
logues will be mailed to you during No-
vember, giving you ample time to make
your choices before Christmas. Your
only obligation to Harper's is to have a
Merry Christmas.
Press, Inc.
ncc 1902, J. Press has set a standard for gentlemen's clothing:
lits, shirts, neckties, overcoats, sport jackets, hats, and beauti-
il brushed wool sweaters for men and women, all in
stinguishcd good taste are shown in the catalogue.
/•. ,/. (). Sclnvinz
In 1862, the "world's greatest toy store" was born, and has
been brightening children's Christmases and birthdays ever
since. More than 1000 toys are shown in the colorful 1961
Christmas Catalogue; many imported and exclusive items from
all oxer the world are included.
L. Bean, Inc.
L. Bean has long beeil a household word to campers,
mters. and fishermen recjuiring durable, top (juality cquip-
ent and clothing, sensibly ])ri(e(l. Ideal gills for all sports-
vers appear in this \vell-known catalogue.
Georg Jensen
The 1961 gift catalogue displays a versatile a.ssortment of
silver, glassware, lamps, china, jewelry for men and women,
table decorations, and clocks all distinctively styled for Jensen.
These and many other Christmas suggestions are shown.
5. Pierre
tablished in 1831, S. .S. Pierce has won a world-wide
niia(i()n for epicurean foods based on 130 continuous
ars of selecting the besi. An exceptionally large variety
Holiday (iift assortmenis, line foods, delicacies and candies
IV be ordered from ihis comprehensive catalogue.
Mark Cross
Mark Cross offers the leather goods for which this store is
justly famous. Luggage and travel accessories, ladies' hand-
bags, men's billfolds, wallets and attache cases, household
and bar gifts, office and desk furnishings can all be ordered
through the catalogue.
E. Caldwell if Company
lese famous Philadelphia jewelers, in business on Chestnut
eet for 122 years, offer a suj^erb selection of diamonds,
itdies, men's and women's jewelry, purses, sterling silver,
ssware, china, and stationery, many other attractive gifts.
Alfred Dunhill of London
The name Dunhill is synonymous with elegance and good
taste in the world of gifts. Pipes, tobaccos, cigarette ligliters,
leather goods, wallets for men, ladies' purses, desk and bar
accessories and many other beautiful gifts are shown in the
1961 Christmas catalogue.
aiholt Fabrics, Ltd.
ignilicent handwoven Siamese silks, Pakomas (stoles),
)uses and e\ening bags for ladies; neckties, bow ties,
inmerbunds, s(ai\es and siiiris for gentlemen, gloriously
ored place mats, napkins and pillows for the home are all
led.
Hanimacher Schlemmer
Hammacher Schlemmer has guaranteed complete satisfaction
to its customers for 113 years. In the catalogue you will find
the last word in housewares and home equipment, mechanical
devices, glass, silver, linens: everything for gracious living
indoors and out.
iH-ricn House
ic showcase for creations of some of .America's finest con-
liiporary craftsmen and designers. Each gift has been
proved by a Selection Board comprised of leading designers,
ghly indi\idual gifts in ceramics, silver, leather, jewely,
ssware and fabrics.
Max Schling, Seedsman
A catalogue full of reasonably priced gifts for indoor and
outdoor gardeners, bird-lovers, children of every age. Do-it-
yourself kits, toys, fun and games for the whole family are
listed along with items for the household and the patio.
READER SHOPPING SERVICE
Harper's Magazine, 49 East 33rd Street, New York 16,
New York
Dear Sirs: Please send me the Christmas catalogues for
the stores checked:
□ J. Press, Inc. □ F. A. O. Schwarz
□ J. E. Caldwell &
Co.
□ Alfred Dunhill of |
London •
□ L. L. Bean □ S. S. Pierce
□ Thaibok Fabrics
□ Hammacher |
Schlemmer i
□ Georg Jensen □ Mark Cross
□ .America House
□ Max Schling |
Seedsman •
Name
(please
Street
print)
City
/.one
State 1
400 DEMONS CLOBBERED
IN SKY-HIGH FROLIC!
You'll find a fresh fiesta at every
turn when you fly to South Amer-
ica by Panagra jet. The new low
fares are in time for you to see
Bolivian diahlada dancers, a
gaucho asado, or Lima's incred-
ible Fiesta de Toros . . .
Dragonheaded shapes as tall as a man
rise from the grass of the Altiplano.
They group, scatter, then group again.
In two long lines they race toward
you, whirling as they run. There are
sometimes as many as 400 of them.
This is Bolivia's diahlada, a pagan
ritual ancient when the Incas were a
"nouveau riche" mob from somewhere
in the North. When the Spaniard
came, this same dance— interpreting
the battle between good and evil,
devil and saint, helped the primitive
mountain Indians understand and ac-
cept the teachings of Christianity.
Today, the diahlada dancers act out
the eternal combat for man's soul, in
a festival unlike any you'll see in any
other part of the world. It is beautiful.
It has primitive strength and vigor.
It is only one of the fascinating ex-
periences that await visitors to South
America.
Both ears, hoofs too
Before you hop the Andean cordillera
to Bolivia, you can drop in on Peru.
Clad in gold-embroidered silks, the
torero tosses his red muleta. An ole!
rolls out ovf!r the arena as he whirls
and turns again to mef:1. Ihf' liMrris
of a pedigreed bull anxiou
patch him to his Andalu.sim
tors. The matador's every rno
to discourage this notion, ajicionadois
will tell you, is prescribed by rules
hallowed by centuries of tradition.
The world's finest mat-
adors appear in Lima's
Fiesta de Toros in ^ \
October and ^j
November.
In the color-
ful Plaza de Acho,
Belmonte and
Manolete have stood to receive, in the
traditional manner, judgment of their
performance. An award, to the torero,
of 2 ears of the bull is exceptional.
If hoofs are included, you have seen
an extravagant success.
Sizzling beef
Continue south, to Argentina, to the
endless flat pampas that stretch to the
rim of the world. Sides of beef sizzle
on spits over roaring wood fires. This
is a genuine asado, meaning barbecue,
and you may be invited to one when
you visit one of the ranches outside
Buenos Aires.
Here, served by gauchos who still
wear the flowing cape, flat-topped
sombrero and baggy trousers of their
forebears, you'll enjoy beefsteak as
you never did before. Even the superb
meals you savor on Panagra's jets
never tasted quite like this.
Try the spicy tea the gauchos
offer you. It's called yerba
mate and even the teacup is
different. You sip it from
a hollowed gourd through
a silver straw.
Every day a bargain
A.nd in Buenos Aires, you find nutria
fur coats and alligator bags at a frac-
"JH of their cost at home. In the
Hhops of Lima, modern hand-wrought
silver sparkles beside beautiful coloni-
al occasional pieces at prices to tempt?
your pocketbook
There are tawny vicufia throws and
silver teaspoons with filigree handles
in Bolivia. And the charming idol
Ekeko. He has a big red
nose and carries a
bountiful pack, for
Ekeko is the
Aymara god
of prosperity.
And look for the
cloth dolls dressed in Indian costumes
on the Jiron Union in Lima. They
make delightful gifts for a child. '
Your holiday in exciting South"
America, where you'll find the unex-
pected around every corner, is as close
as tomorrow. Service is so fast and
frequent, by daily Panagra jet, you
spend every vacation day at your
destination.
And now Panagra has cut air rates
to the lowest ever. New Jet Economy
fare is $460 round trip from New York
to Lima, $380 round trip from Miami,
over the routes of National, Pan Am
and Panagra. See your Travel Agent
now, or call Pan American, U. S. Sales
Agent for Panagra.
For more sightseeing facts, ask forj
the 130-page book "How to Get the"'
Most Out of Your Trip to South;
America." Send 25^ to Don Wilson,!
Room 4436, Chrysler Bldg., N. Y.C. 17. ^
WORLD'S FRIENDLIEST AIRLINE
I
^f1
a
MAGA
A WAY OUT OF
THE WELFARE MESS
EDGAR MAY
Our growing "handout society" — with all
its waste and demoralization — can be
cleaned up . . . but it will take more
than Newburgh's tough talk, or the pious
sentimentality of the social worker.
AF E W miles from where you live there is a
part of America nobody wants. It may be
a group of ramshackle farm houses or the gray,
weather-worn tenements of a city street. Row on
row they shelter the culls of society whose to-
getherness is marked by frayed collars and the
musty smell of the poor.
Their subsistence is a government check and
their guardian is a civil servant, who, more often
than not, has too little education, too many re-
sponsibilities, and too few dollars in his own pay
envelope. For a number of months I was one
of these untrained dispensers of public charity
in the city of Buffalo.
During this stint I helped waste some of the
millions of dollars and vast quantities of hu-
man energy which go into the program called
public welfare. Today my counterparts range
from the smallest village to our nation's largest
cities. And wherever they hold the purse strings
of the slums, they are— with few exceptions-
setting new spending records that are dismaying
taxpayers and instilling the fear of voting-booth
retaliation in politicians.
The recently headlined defiance of state and
federal welfare regulations by a tiny city on the
shores of the Hudson River— Newburgh, New
York— is symptomatic of a growing public rum-
bling. And the chorus of editorial "hurrahs" for
its new stringent relief rules underscores the un-
rest across the nation. Almost one-third of New-
burgh's budget this year must be allocated to its
needy population. My own metropolitan relief
operation— the Erie County Welfare Department
—this year will spend $34 million— more money
than it costs to educate every child in the public
schools of Buffalo.
Similar industrial centers mirror the same
fiscal dilemma. The Illinois legislature, for in-
stance, passed a $67-million deficiency appropria-
tion early this year because Chicago's charity well
was about to run dry. In Cleveland, last fall,
welfare allowances were cut back to 70 per cent
of what Ohio concedes is the minimum amount
you can live on because there just weren't enough
tax dollars. Yet our national effort to be our
brother's keeper is as erratic as the Manhattan
skyline. In Mississippi the average family receiv-
ing aid-to-dependent-children funds lives on
$36.41 a month while a New York State family
38
THE WELFARE MESS
gets almost five times as much. In Alabama the
caseworker who authorizes checks is the provider
ol 349 families; in New Jersey the figure is 86.
Behind these statistical disparities and mone-
tary woes is a question asked with increasing
frequency by legislative investigating committees
in many states: Just what does this flood of
money buy? The traditional answers always have
been that it kcci)s families together, prevents
(hildrcn from starving, and blocks a wholesale
iiu lease in crime because otherwise people Avould
have to steal to eat. But are these adequate
answers when in almost every year since the war,
the population of this public-dependent society
has expanded through good times and bad?
"What you givin' me is okay," Mrs. A, one of
mv relief cases said. "But you gives the landlord
most twice as much as this heap is \\orth and
then I gives the grocer more than he should get
'cause he allows me credit \vhen that check don't
come on time. The money is here okay, but it
ain't goin' to be no different next month, is it?"
The man at the wellspring of Mrs. A's relief
check, Secretary of Health, Education, and \Ve\-
farc. Abraham A. Ribicoff, recently explained
her problem this way: "I've come to feel that we
have just been drifting in the field of welfare.
Many welfare workers have become mere con-
duits between state treasuries and those they seek
to help— neglecting prevention, rehabilitation,
and protecti\e services." I verified this statement
personally last vear. For three momlis I worked
as a welfare department caseworker on leave
from my job as a reporter on the Buffalo pAicning
Nexos. It was a sobering and— in many ways-
surprising experience.
GENERATIONS OF PAUPERS
AF T E R a week of training lectures on the
job of a caseworker, my supervisor offered
me the first of several helpful hints: "The main
thing is to get the aid out," he said. "You can
always check things later if you have sus-
jMcions." But "later"-as it turned out-I had
more and more cases and there never was any
lime. \Viihin two months, in fact, I was the
government-assigned head-of-household for 160
families. "I'm sorry that you've got so many cases
i)ecause you shouldn't really have them," my
siijjervisor said, "but there jiisi isn't anybody
else." My colleague at the next desk had 181
and a veteran acioss the hall was struggling with
208. Meanwhile, social-work experts in the state
welfare department estimated ihai eadi of us
< onld really handle no more than 7.5 competently.
The fact that in some Southern states the case
loads were twice as large as ours was little com-
fort as our telephone jingled with nerve-racking
constancy.
"Mr. May, my gas has been shut off . . . Susy
has no shoes to go to school . . . my check didn't
come . . . the landlord wants to throw me out . . .
John got picked up by the cops this after-
noon. . . ." The distraught voices funneled their
crises to me with the daily regularity of a de-
partment store complaint desk. But my defective
merchandise was himnan. And as the calls multi-
plied, individual problems began to blend into a
large mosaic of miser\ . People became case num-
bers and faces statistics. "The only time I know
what's going on in my cases," a co-worker said,
"is Avhen something blows up."
The effect of such case loads was written in
the records. One report, for instance, showed
that at least five recijjients had not been \isited
at home by a cascAvoikcr in three years although
the mailman was delivering checks every month.
For ten others the "home call" lapse Avas two
years. Yet the rule book saitl they should be
visited at least once every three months.
"If you see a visitor once a year, my, that's a
lot," one of my clients told me after she had
hesitated to open her door to me. "That's why
when you first rang I didn't have any idea who
you might be." Her record, which I had in-
herited, showed a home call eight months earlier,
but tlic client could not remember seeing a case-
worker for a year and a half. My predecessor
apparently had reported a call that never was
made. In all these cases the "conduits" described
by Secretary Ribicoff dutifullv kept on channel-
ing dollars from the treasury to the needy. No
one has starved. Few have committed crimes.
But fewer still have been helped.
Take the case of Mrs. S, who first sho\\'ed up
in the relief files in 1946 with two out-of-wedlock
chiklren. Since then she has been receiving
public charity almost every year. In 1955 Avhen
her older children were in high school, she had
another illegitimate baby and three years later
added a fourth. In the early years of her case
record— when her worker visited her every month
—I lie family's setbacks and accomplishments were
chronicled in detail. Much of the story was de-
Ed^ar May, on the staff of the Buffalo "Eve-
nin^ JScus' iron the I'lilitzcr Prize Inst spririi: for
his series of articles on public u el fare. He iias horn
in Si( itrerlnnd am/ is a liraduale of the Medill School
of Journalism at Northwestern.
BY EDGAR MAY
39
voted to her oldest daughter, Jane. It read like
this:
November 1951— "Jane is doing very well in
school. Her marks are: math 98; geography 96;
history 94; English 95, and spelling 100."
March 1954— "Daughter Jane has the highest
average in the eighth-grade class."
June 1954— "Jane's teachers are suggesting she
take a college preparatory course."
November 1955— "Jane is taking two extra
courses in high school. She is an honor student."
Suddenly Jane disappeared from the case
record. The chronology was less detailed as case-
worker visits became less frequent. Five years
after the last entry, I visited Mrs. S and asked
about her daughter. Here are my notes:
"Jane was married in March 1956 at the age of
sixteen after being pregnant as a sophomore in
high school. The nuns were trying to obtain a
full college scholarship for her. Her first baby
was born the following September. She had
wanted to be a teacher."
There is a postscript to this story. Today the
welfare files contain a new case number for Jane
S.. whose steel-worker husband was laid off in
the recession. A new "conduit" is sending charity
dollars to Jane and her slum-entangled children
who still are too young to have their school
grades inscribed on the record. This government
biography of one family was written by seven-
teen different caseworkers. I have seen other
cases that have had five workers in a single year.
When I resigned after three months I was the
fifth to quit of the eleven who started with me.
By the end of the year more than half were gone.
Other cities have equally dismal records. Chi-
cago's Cook County, for instance, writes "re-
signed" on about half of its caseworker personnel
cards every year. In New Jersey the turnover rate
was 48 per cent in 1959, Maryland, 46 per cent.
Many counties— like mine— have had to hire pro-
visional appointees to fill the holes with the hope
that they would pass the civil-service test some
time in the future. One state welfare commis-
sioner wrote his governor after his resignation
rate passed the halfway mark: "Workers do not
have time to know their cases or to acquire the
necessary skills in rendering services to people
and preventing them from becoming perma-
nently dependent on public aid."
Who are the people who fill the caseworker
jobs in public welfare? Although many call
themselves "social workers," most of them are
wholly untrained and have neither the academic
nor the on-the-job tools required to deal with
complex human problems. In New York State,
a college degree (in any subject) is mandatory
for a welfare caseworker's job. Among my co-
workers were: a recent graduate in secretarial
science, a former aircraft employee who had
worked seven years as a shipping clerk, and a
real-estate salesman whose wintertime business
was too slow for him to make a living. Of the
eleven in my indoctrination class, only three
had taken a basic sociology or psychology course.
In our department— as in most public welfare
agencies— a holder of a master's in social work is
rarer than a relief client who turns back a check.
Out of a social-service staff of 426, only four have
graduate-school degrees while six hold one-year
certificates. The others wandered in bearing de-
grees in fields ranging from merchandising to
physical education. In fact in my county, aca-
demic training in social work is not a pre-
requisite for any public-welfare job, including
commissioner of social welfare, his deputies, the
casework consultant, and director. In my part of
the state most of the commissioners do not even
have the qualifications demanded of their case-
workers—a college degree. And there isn't any
strong sentiment for change. A move to write
job specifications for the four top posts was re-
buffed by the county lawmakers.
"We have to be careful, you know," one
politician said. "We don't want to get any of
these Cloud Nine thinkers here."
KEEPERS OF THE PENNIES
IF THESE suspicions were to fade suddenly
and a mass demand for trained staff were to
arise, the campaign to get them would be like
trying to wash your car with a water pistol. There
just aren't that many. This June the largest
institution of its kind in the country, Columbia's
New York School of Social Work, awarded de-
grees to 155 men and women. If all of them had
turned to public welfare careers (and only 15 per
cent did) they wouldn't fill the vacancy that
exists today in New York City alone.
Most deans of social-work schools still insist
that it takes two years of graduate work to pro-
duce a social worker. However, there has been a
recent murmur of self-criticism. The latest is in
a recent summary of a thirteen-volume curricu-
lum study which admitted that "the decision in
1937 to treat social-work education as strictly
graduate in nature was quite probably a serious
mistake. ... It provided a picture of a profession
upgrading itself in both quality and status with-
out sufficient attention to its societal obligation
to provide services to meet needs." As of today.
f
40
THE WELFARE MESS
the shortage of social workers with any training
whatever is a major problem across the country.
AVhy have Americans been so reluctant to enter
this "helping" profession and Avhy have even the
untrained left it so quickly and in such droves?
A research project conducted for a New York
State legislative welfare investigation gave as one
reason low pay. For instance one county in a
state that long has prided itself on being a pace-
setter in the welfare field pays its caseworkers
S3,484 a year. My own weekly take-home check
was S59.62, based on a .54,200 annual salary
(which since has been raised). For this salary
I was supposed to have a strolling familiarity
with politics, law, other governmental agencies,
sociology, psychology, religion, police work, the
courts, and bookkeeping.
It is this last obligation that has convinced
many a caseworker that a major in statistics with
minors in memo writing and form filling (in
quadruplicate) would be the best preparation for
a public-welfare job. It took twenty-four separate
pieces of paper to give one of my clients her first
welfare check. They were part of the arsenal of
sixty-five forms labeled "most frequently used."
Citizens' committees invariably agree that a lead-
ing contributor to the caseworker mortality rate
is the paper-work monster— whether he rears his
bureaucratic confetti in Pittsbmgh, Detroit, or
Buffalo.
My co-workers and I spent more than half of
our time in the office in clerical tasks. Five dis-
tinct welfare categories (and now a sixth and
seventh for those states adopting medical aid
to the aged and expanded help to unemployed
families) all with their own federal and state
edicts have nurtured this proliferation of forms.
The mass of regulations leads to exercises like
this: Two of my old-age clients called me one
day to say they had moved to a new apartment
two months earlier. The rent was 18.80 higher.
Although they were man and wife, living in the
same place and received identical grants, thev
were recorded as two separate cases. Changing
their address and giving them the extra rent
money they had missed required twenty-two
pieces of paper, not counting four checks, four
envelopes, and four postage stamps.
"How can you do casework around here when
your master is a piece of carbon paper and an
adding madiinc?" a worker at the next desk
groaned. Budgets, figured separately for every
individual in every family, have been honed to a
petuiy science which would startle the most
frugal hf)usevvife. A score of separate mathemati-
cal entries lor f)ne person is not uncoinmon and
these might include $.50 for castor oil, $1.45 for
use of a gas stove (as opposed to $2.15 for use of
an electric one), and $1.35 for laundry.
Monthly food allowances vary in pennies ac-
cording to sex and age. When a new member
joined one of my welfare families, I was there
before the christening with a government-sup-
plied layette that included 27 different items.
Although caseworkers were supposed to list each
item and its cost (1 card safety pins, 4 nipple
caps, 1 bottle brush, etc.), more often than not,
a lump-sum check was sent to the mother. That
she might not have used it for what it was
intended, was evident on the next home call.
BLAME IT ON WELFARE
TH E largest single expenditure on all these
budget cards is the rent bill. In Buffalo,
landlords collect more than seven million welfare
dollars annually, often for vermin-infested hovels
that aren't worthy half the price. For instance,
Mr. K, one of my clients whose weekly salary
wouldn't support the eight mouths he had to
feed, was getting a supplementary welfare check
because he was paying $90 a month rent. Three
years earlier, when his flat still was under rent
control, his predecessor paid $34.50. In most
Northern cities, Negroes, on relief, pay consider-
ably higher rents than whites. One of my
colored clients showed me an $80 rent receipt; a
few miles away a white client, in a similar six-
room flat, was paying $22.50. As in other cities,
all too many of these homes are substandard.
Thousands of dwellings violate housing laws be-
cause the city doesn't have enough building in-
spectors or, on occasion, they look the other way.
Few of these interrelated problems were
created by the welfare department— nor has it the
exclusive power to solve them. Yet when tax
bills and tempers rise correspondingly, a wave of
social ills— ranging from illegitimacy to poverty
itself— is blamed on welfare. Whipping-boy solu-
tions are sometimes the results. In 1959 the
North Carolina legislature had before it a bill
that called for sterilizing mothers of illegitimate
children. And last year Louisiana passed a law
that denied money to 23,000 youngsters whose
mothers had an out-of-wedlock birth anytime
after receiving relief.
In the North, embattled Newburgh— minia-
ture of the troubled welfare canvas— adopted a
similar ruling. Further, the city told its 180 de-
pendent children and home-relief families that
public charity would be limited to three con-
secutive months a year. Amid the furor over
BY EDGAR MAY
41
iio;ht relief policies— some of which have been in
effect legally in nearby areas— other city problems
were left in the shadows. These included a high
unemployment rate, a lagging redevelopment
program, a lack of major new industry, and slums
that were unchecked by even a minimum housing
law until two years ago. The Newburgh incident
also illustrates another common symptom of
municipal frustration— the tendency to picture
most welfare recipients as bums and chiselers. In
f ict, when Newburgh relief recipients were ques-
tioned at police headquarters before receiving
their May checks, not one case of fraud was dis-
covered nor was a single chiseler brought to
court in 1960.
Such widely publicized punitive approaches to
the welfare problem have overshadowed the
quiet and, unfortunately, isolated positive efforts.
Rare though they are, some useful answers have
in fact been found. From Marin County, Cali-
fornia, to my neighboring Niagara County, ex-
perimental programs in human salvage have
shown that many families do not have to stay
on relief. Intensive casework aimed at rehabilita-
tion has not only pushed them off the welfare
rolls and made them productive, but has saved
money as well. And the "case-closed" roster in-
cludes not just able-bodied men, but the handi-
capped and those receiving dependent-children
funds.
Mr. B, in my own city, is an example. Classi-
fied as disabled because of a leg amputation, he
had been collecting checks for his family of six
children since 1953. Last year he was referred to
the State Division of Vocational Rehabilitation
which trained him as an artificial limb fitter.
This June he began an $85-a-week job. The
training bill was $348.56 against more than
$15,000 the taxpayers spent to maintain him in
the last seven years.
In Chicago a comprehensive recent study of
aid to dependent children had this to say: "The
rehabilitation potential in ADC families was
found to be much higher than was expected. In
almost half of the families the possibilities of
achieving personal and economic independence
within a reasonable period of time was excel-
lent. . . ." However, the report emphasized, to
achieve independence, these families need ade-
quate day-care facilities for children, vocational
training, and dental or medical care.
An experimental unit in Richmond, Virginia,
a few years ago tested the validity of this thesis.
By devoting extra time, patience, and skill to a
group of ADC families, caseworkers managed to
close an average of nineteen cases while in ^the
same period regular department personnel closed
only two. An estimated $300,000 was saved for
the taxpayers.
Unfortunately few communities have been
willing or have had the manpower to conduct
such experiments on a major scale. My own
county has taken a few encourae;ing steps. After
the Buffalo Evening Nexos published mv experi-
ences as a caseworker, Wclf'vc Commissioner
Paul F. Burke issued a thirty-four-point reform
program. Subsequently, he reorganized the de-
partment to decrease case loads, won starting
salary increases that rank among the highest in
the state, and added forty-two new caseworkers
as well as a personnel director and employment
counselors.
"We have now," he said recently, "a public
understanding of our difficulties which we've
never had before. And that allows for at least a
beginning." But "beginnings," whether in Buf-
falo, or Richmond, Virginia, are not enoue;h if
they are to reverse the rising cost of the de-
pendent population. Mavors and legislators
clamoring in Washington for urban renewal must
turn also to human renewal. Distributing relief
checks to tenants in new housing projects will
not save our cities.
UNDERDEVELOPED AMERICA
WE W I L L be permanently saddled with
the cost of a growing handout society
unless our local, state, and federal welfare offi-
cials tackle two basic tasks. First, the public-
welfare caseworker must be placed in a position
where he can actually do more than dole out
checks to the human beings in custody; this will
be possible only if his crushing burden of paper-
work is somehow reduced. One step in this direc-
tion would be to introduce modern business
methods, with their mechanical handmaidens,
into welfare departments. But little can be done
to cure the plague of form-filling unless the
federal government eliminates the many cate-
gories of welfare with their maze of diverse
regulations and reimbursement formulas.* l-o-
* Public-assistance programs to wliicli the federal
government contributes now include Old Age Assist-
ance (OAA), Aid to Dependent Children (ADC). Aid
to the Blind (AB), and Aid to the Permanently and
Totally Disabled (APTD). In addition, counties
pay poor relief to needy persons not ehgible for the
foregoing. These programs are administered entirely
apart from the various types of old-age and disal)ilily
insurance provided by our social-security system and
Veterans' benefits although some people are eligible
for several kinds of payments.
■■m
42
New Frontiers of Science:
The Squawk and Blat Sector
I
n solitude the Bottlenose Dolphin emits
Avhistlcs and clicks and, very rarely,
quacks or blats. In response to, and in
exchange with, another dolphin at a dis-
tance, an animal emits whistles and
trains of clicks (at a relatively slow repe-
tition rate) and occasional quacks. In
violent play, courtship, and intercourse,
in close (juarters, each may emit all three
classes of sounds, with fairly frequent
squawks, quacks, and blats.
—From an article by John C. Lilly and
Alice M. Miller in Science, May 26, 1961.
cal communities and state legislatures must
battle for a single standard of aid instead of
engaging in perennial flights of oratory about
"red tape in Washington." Only when the tangle
of administrative underbrush is cleared out will
form-filling cease to be the main preoccupation
of the public-welfare caseworker.
Assuming that caseworkers will thus be given
time to engage in a genuine "helping" function,
it Avill be no easy matter to find (jualified people
:o fill the jobs. Manifestly, we cannot look to
the graduate schools of social work to solve the
shortage. What is needed— and urgently— is an
experimental approach to this critical educa-
tional problem. It might, for example, be pos-
sible to add a public-welfare-oriented program in
existing state universities. Or the few under-
graduate colleges which now offer courses in the
theory and jjractice of social work might expand
their programs in the public-charity field. Alter-
natively, the states whose needs are greatest might
establish undergraduate institutes of social work
similar to teachers' colleges, for the exclusive
purpose of turning out public-welfare workers.
Admittedly this kind of abbreviated professional
training is not as good as a two-year master's
program; but it is considerably better than filling
caseworker jobs with people trained as secretaries
or basketball coaches.
If such an effort is to succeed, it must be
coupled with a recruitment campaign pitched
to the full level of the present emergency. It
seems cjuite likely that patriotic young college
men and women would respond to an appeal to
help underdeveloped Americans with as much
zeal as that with which they have flocked to the
Peace Corps. But the call will have to be couched
in far more compelling terms than in past re-
cruitment pamphlets and speeches of the social-
work profession.
Assuming that such a program could succeed
in attracting more and better-trained people,
local welfare departments must see to it that they
are well used. Too often today their personnel
policies are of the shotgun variety— with their
sparse staff deployed at random irrespective of
abilities or opportunities for accomplishment.
Social-service jobs must be reclassified so that
the most skilled are assigned to the critical areas.
For example, oldsters on relief because they have
run out of money are not likely to become pro-
ductive members of the community. A trained
worker's time would be better spent with the
multi-problem families of unwed mothers or
the chronically unemployed.
After the jobs have been made workable and
people found to fill them, then tested rehabilita-
tion—a major anti long-neglected goal of welfare
legislation— can begin. With it, a few social
taboos, whether whispered or paper policy,
should be reviewed. The sharp rise of aid-to-
dependent-children families— with their legiti-
mate and out-of-wedlock children— suggests that
birth-control information should be provided
for those whose religious faith permits it. In
some Northern industrial states a Planned Par-
enthood Leaguer arguing this before welfare in-
vestigation committees is greeted with the
enthusiasm that would be accorded a rabbit
attending the League's convention.
At the same time, any freeloaders should be
rigorously weeded out. Judges who might be
lenient to a convicted welfare chiseler because
he doesn't even have money to pay a fine should
hand down a jail sentence if the amount stolen
warrants it. When a shoplifter goes to the
penitentiary and a major relief cheat is placed
on probation, the public's confidence is not
enhanced.
But unless the key element— help— accom-
panies the future flow of relief checks, the tax
of being our brother's keeper may become pro-
hibitive. Beyond this, the human price may be
too high. When government charity began on a
major scale, the political patron saint of social
work, President Franklin D. Roosevelt, said in
his 1935 message to Congress:
"Continued dependence upon relief induces a
spiritual and moral disintegration fundamen-
tally destructive to the national fiber. To dole
out relief in this way is to administer a narcotic,
a subtle destroyer of the human spirit."
II
Harper's Magazine, October 1961
MY ESCAPE
FROM
THE CIA
HUGHES RUDD
A clandestine conversation at a cocktail party,
a long silence, a meeting in a deserted
garage, and finally a file slammed shut. . . .
One mans adventure in the bureaucratic jungle
— armed only with a trench coat and a tweed cap.
SINCE the Central Intelligence Agency is
in so much hot water anyway because of its
role in such international blunders as the U-2
incident and the invasion fiasco in Cuba, I think
it's time I made a clean breast of my own con-
nection with the organization, not only to get
the whole thing off my conscience, but also to
permit the CIA to close its file on me. The last
time I heard from them, they still had my file
open, and they may be waiting for me to show
up in Washington and go to work. The way
things are going for them now, I imagine they'd
like to get all such unfinished business cleared
up so the files can be carted off for storage in a
government warehouse someplace.
I would never have had anything to do with
the CIA at all if I had not found myself in
California in 1952, enrolled in a large university
on the GI bill at the age of thirty, stone broke
and in the middle of a divorce. The only cloth-
ing I owned was four pairs of khakis, three
sweat shirts, a tweed jacket with leather elbow
patches which had been put on by the former
owner, one pair of low-quarter sneakers, one pair
of run-over moccasins, and several shirts and
shorts which I had bought in a Junior League
Thrift Shop. Transportation is vital in Cali-
fornia, but all I had was a Chevrolet pick-up
truck which I had wrecked twice while the
divorce was still in the early stages. By Ameri-
can standards— and God knows by California
standards— I was thoroughly unemployable, and
it was then that the CIA entered my life.
At first I didn't know it was the CIA. An
English professor who had befriended me
(largely, I think, because of those elbow patches:
you don't see many of those in California, and
he was a Harvard man) invited me to a cocktail
party at his house, and since I had borrowed five
hundred dollars from him to pay a very com-
plicated traffic fine, I was eager to please, and so
I went to the party. Actually, I probably
would have gone even if I hadn't borrowed the
five hundred dollars, because I liked him and be-
cause I couldn't afford to turn down an evening
of free drinks.
Anyway, I showed up, and before I'd finished
the first free drink the host came up and drew
me aside, as they say.
"There's somebody here I want you to meet,"
he said, looking around.
44
MV ESCAPE FROM THE CIA
This struck me as a pretty silly thing to say at
a cocktail party, but there was that five hundred
bucks to think about, so I smiled, and looked
around at all the people, ready to meet some-
body. "There he is," the host said. "You go on in
the bedroom and I'll bring him in after a
minute."
"In the bedroom? Why do we have to meet in
the bedroom?"
"You can talk better in there," the host said,
and pushed me toward the hall. I went into the
bedroom and sat down on the bed, thinking
back over the years' poor judgments and small
disasters which had led me there, and after a
while the host came in with a man and intro-
duced him.
"I'm sure you two will get along fine," my
friend said, and Avinked at me before he left,
closing the door behind me.
"Well!" said the newcomer. "Let's get com-
fortable, shall we?" and we both sat down on
the bed. He was about thirty-five years old, six
feet or six feet one, a handsome fellow with a
rugged, tan face, very genial looking, with an
absolutely winning smile. He was dressed well
but quietly, and it was pretty obvious he'd never
had on somebody else's tweed jacket in his life.
"Tell me about yourself," he said, holding
the winning smile.
Now, if someone should ask me to tell him
about myself today, I'd probably refuse to do it,
but at the time I remember feeling flattered that
anybody cared enough to ask, and I expect I
must have sensed money somewhere, but anyway,
I did tell him about myself, for about thirty
minutes. Any personnel manager in his right
mind, if given that half-hour's blabber in a
resume, could draw only one conclusion: un-
stable and probably permanently unemployable.
But my new friend just nodded and kept smiling
while I told him of all the jobs I'd had, from
Texas to Minnesota and back again, working as
a newspaper reporter, a door-to-door photogra-
pher of children, and, for one marvelous week,
as a hot-dog-stand counterman in a city zoo. I
think I even told him about the five-hundred-
dollar traffic conviction, and I know I told him
about the divorce. When I got through, the first
Huf^hes Rudd, who is on the staff of CBS
News, lives in New York and is writing a novel.
After Army service in World War II, he was a
newsnaner r"t)ortPr in /hr Midwest and a corre-
spondent in Eiirf)i)<\ then stndird at the University
of MInnosola nnd Stan ford, and wrote and directed
industrial and commercial movies.
thing he said was, "You've never been convicted
of any federal charges, have you?" and after
giving it a little thought, I said I hadn't.
"^V'ell," he said, getting up. "I think I might
have something that might interest you. Today
is Monday. Wednesday afternoon, I'll drop by
your place and we'll chat some more, around
four o'clock. Where do you live?"
I lived in a dormitory with about two thou-
sand noisy undergraduates, and I told him so.
"Fine," he said. "See you Wednesday, then,"
and we went back to the party. The rest of the
evening \\as pretty uneventful, except for a
lady novelist who got too much to drink, but my
bedroom acquaintance left the party long be-
fore that happened.
IH .A D no real notion of what the man might
have that would "interest me"; I suppose I
must have expected a sort of public-relations
job, since public-relations jobs have always
sounded just about* as vague as he did. I was in
my cell-like room at four o'clock on Wednesday,
ready to go to work, wearing a freshly pmchased
Brooks Brothers shirt from the Junior League
Thrift Shop . . .but it wasn't that easy, of course.
When my man arrived, he was wearing casual
sports clothes and carrying a large brief case. AVe
sat down on the narrow bed, since there were no
chairs in the room, and he picked the brief case
up and held it on his lap.
"You do understand, don't you, that I'm with
the government?" he said, smiling. I think maybe
he even chuckled.
"No," I said.
"Oh, well," he said. "I guess we'd better start
at the beginning, hadn't we?"
"Yes," I said, "certainly," but I had an uneasy
thought that the whole thing was going to turn
out to have something to do with the census.
"You've heard of the CIA, I imagine?" he said,
and now instead of that winning smile he was all
seriousness, man-to-man, a Jack Armstrong sort
of look, Jack Armstrong prepared to let a friend
in on a little secret. I said yes, I had heard of the
CIA, and he said he was the West Coast recruit-
ing f)fficer for the boys in Washington, and my
professor friend had suggested my name as a pos-
sible candidate for employment with the outfit.
Well! I was delighted. Visions of expensive
trench coats danced through my head, but since
I'm as familiar with espionage thrillers as the
next man, I kept a straight face. "I see," I said,
I)atting my pockets for cigarettes. He offeretl me
one fiom a silver (asc which had his name en-
graved on it, and 1 was mildly disappointed to
BY HUGHES RUDD
45
see it was the same name he was using with me.
"Why is the, uh, outfit interested in me?" I
wanted to know. "Because I've had sort of a
knock-about life? I mean, running around the
country, doing different tilings? I suppose it's
sort of hard to find people who—"
"No," he said, "it's your newspaper experience
we're after. Frankly, your job would be to write
reports from, well, from certain countries in
Western Europe. But before we get into the de-
tails, I'd like you to translate this for me, please,"
and he whipped out a single sheet of mimeo-
graph paper from the brief case and handed it to
me. The sheet was printed in French.
"You mean now? ReatI it now?"
"Don't read it," he said. "Translate it. As
({uickly as you can, please."
I stumbled through the thing, discovering as I
went along that it was a story taken from a
French newspaper about some sort of tribal con-
flict in Senegal. The phrase, "charnbre des
conimxins," or something similar, kept reappear-
ing, and I translated it as "common room" about
six times, before realizing it must mean "house
of commons." Other than that, I did pretty well,
and my visitor said he was pleased.
"A little rusty," he said, smiling again, "but
Fm sure you could brush up in a hurry."
I agreed that brushing up would be no trouble
at all.
"You understand, of course," he went on, after
smiling appreciatively at my enthusiasm, "that
this is only the preliminary language test. For
the particidar area where you'd be working, that
is. Do you have any Flemish?"
No, I said, I had no Flemish at all, expecting
to see that smile die, but it didn't.
"As a matter of fact, very few people have," he
said. "Fm sure that won't matter."
"Good," I said. "Fine."
He explained there would be another language
test given at a certain address in San Francisco
on Monday; we shook hands and he left.
I can't remember exactly how I spent those
intervening days, but Fm sure they were among
the happiest, most exciting Fve ever known. I
looked at the world through brand-new eyes,
eyes that had a tendency to narrow to slits for
no reason at all; I found myself memorizing
license plates on cars ahead of me in traffic, and
eavesdropping unmercifully in the college coffee
joint. The high point came on Saturday, when
I discovered a Burberry trench coat at the Junior
League Thrift Shop, so old and faded it was like
white muslin, but the genuine British article,
for five dollars. I didn't own a slouch hat, but I
had a tweed cap I had stolen from Allen Tate
when I was a student of his at the University of
Minnesota, and 1 wore that with the Burberry
as I tooled around under the California sunshine
in my battered pick-up truck, keeping one eye
on those suspicious license numbers ahead of me
and the other on the rear-view mirror, in case I
was being followed. And the odd thing was,
I was being followed: several times that Saturday
I spotteil a 1948 green Pontiac sedan on my tail,
and when I left the Heidelberg Beer Garden at
two o'clock Sunday morning, it was parked
acioss the street in a Frostee Malt drive-in. I
zoomed off around the first corner and didn't see
it again, but I don't think it was just my im-
agination. As for the truth, of course, it's locked
in those files in Washington.
ON M O N D A Y I drove to San Francisco
to the address I had been given (it was a
small office building south of Market Street), and
presented myself at room number so-and-so. The
only occupant was my old friend, but he was all
business now, and he promptly put me to work
at a table, writing translations of more French
newspaper articles. I remember the headline on
one of them: it said, "Telescopage a Dijon!" and
was about two trains which had collided, mal-
henreiisement.
After about two hours of that, my friend gave
me some long forms to fill out, listing all the
jobs Fd ever held, where Fd held them, and why
Fd quit holding them, as well as a complete
record of my educational experiences, going all
the way back to my first-grade teacher's name. I
couldn't remember my first-grade teacher's name,
but I remembered my second-grade teacher's
name: Miss Harrison. The reason I could re-
member it was she had once cast me as a turkey
in a play about the Pilgrim Fathers, over my
screaming protests, and that's just not the kind
of thing a man forgets. So I put her name down,
hoping the boys in Washington would consider
a second-grade teacher almost as good as a first-
grade teacher when it came to giving character
references. By the time I got through with all
this it was about five o'clock, and the recruiting
officer said he was afraid he'd have to be off.
I was hoping he'd ask me to have a drink with
him in some elegant spot like the Garden Court
of the Palace Hotel, where espionage was certain
to flourish if it ever flourished anywhere, but he
didn't, so I drove on back to the dormitory. In
fact, now that I think of it, none of the CIA
people I met ever offered to buy me a drink at
any time, which is a hell of a way to run a re-
46
MY ESCAPE FROM THE CIA
cruiting drive and may have more to do with
what happened in Cuba than we suspect.
Several weeks went by before I heard from the
boys in Washington again, and when the contact
was made, it was on the pay telephone in the
hall of the dormitory. I had given that number
to the recruiting officer, since I had no telephone
of my own, and one day a freshman jerked my
door open to say I was wanted on the pay phone.
It was the recruiter.
"How does fifty-six hundred a year sound to
you?" he said, after we had said hello.
"Fine," 1 said. "Great." I had about four
dollars in cash, sixteen in the bank, and no more
than five or six tickets for football games left in
my student-activities book.
"Okay, boy," he said, "you'll be hearing from
us," and he hung up.
As it turned out, I didn't hear from them for
four years, and by that time I was living in a
Midwestern city, writing motion-picture scripts
for heavy industry, with a new wife, a stepson, a
mortgaged ranch-style rambler, and a Ford sta-
tion wagon. I had long since discarded the Bur-
berry, because I tore a great hole in it getting out
of the old pick-up truck one day in Sunnyvale,
California, where I had gone in search of work
in a plant which canned maraschino cherries, but
I still had Allen Tate's tweed cap.
This time the contact from the boys in Wash-
ington came through the mail. I received a
letter without any return address on the en-
velope, informing me that my file had been "re-
opened" and that I was to arrange as soon as
possible to present myself in Washington for an
interview. So that there would be no misunder-
standing, the letter said, I was to make the trip
at my own expense, but in the event of a mutu-
ally satisfactory arrangement, I would be re-
imbursed for travel expenses by the government.
The salary remained the same: fifty-six hundred
dollars per year.
I showed the letter to my wife, and then wrote
the man in Washington, explaining that my
situation was no longer what it had been, that
I now had personal responsibilities I had not
had before, by which I meant a wife, a child, a
mortgage, and a station wagon, and closed by
saying, rather proudly, that I was now earning
considerably more than the salary offered me and
was therefore forced to ask that my file be closed
again. I sent this off and forgot about it, but as
Mr. Khrushchev knows, the CIA is a persistent
crowd. Within two weeks I had another letter
from the same fellow in Washington, and this
one had a rather nasty tone. It said that the
personnel director was at a loss to understand
my attitude, that I had stated to a member of
the agency that I was willing to accept employ-
ment at fifty-six hundred dollars per annum, and
that my present demand for a salary almost twice
that figure smacked of something pretty un-
savory. The letter did not actually threaten me
with federal prosecution, but I am a guilty soul
by nature, so instead of simply throwing the
letter away, I sat down and wrote a more de-
tailed explanation of my changed condition,
closing this time not on a note of pride, but
humility: I said I was sorry if I'd caused them
any inconvenience, and pointed out that I wasn't
asking for any salary at all.
AW E E K later the telephone rang while
we were having dinner in our ranch-style
rambler, and I answered it.
"My name is Brown," a man's voice said. "I've
been asked to contact you by a friend in Wash-
ington." There was a short silence, while I tried
to think of some friend in Washington.
"This is Hughes Rudd, isn't it?" the voice said,
rather impatiently.
"Yes," I said. "But who did you say—"
"It's about that little matter of yours," the
voice said. "Yoii know. The fifty-six hundred
dollars?"
"Oh!" I said. "About that? It's really about
that? You called me up about that? Where are
you? Washington?"
"No, no," the voice said. "I'm here. Write
down this address," and he waited while I found
a pencil and paper, then read oft a street address
in a suburb. "Can you make it tomorrow after-
noon?" he said. "About four? I'm pretty short
on time."
"Well," I said, "I don't get off work until
about five."
There was another short, humming silence.
"Oh," he said. "Well, make it five-thirty then.
Can you find it? The address, I mean? You
know where it is?"
"I'll find it," I said, and added for no reason
whatever, "I have a station wagon."
"Okay," the voice said. "And, ah, I probably
don't have to tell you— ah, hm. You know what
I mean?"
"No," I said. "I couldn't hear you. Tell me
what?"
Again the short silence.
"Well, just keep it to yourself," the voice said
after a moment, and I could tell it was painful
for him to have to come right out and say it.
"Certainly," I said.
BY HUGHES RUDD
47
Tlien he mumbled something and hung up.
I wore a new suit to work, since I planned to
^o straight from the office to the address he'd
given me, and I wanted to look my best: I
Figured I had to look like I was making more
than fifty-six hundred dollars per annum. The
address turned out to be that of a bungalow in
an older subdivision which was beginning to go
to seed: the front yards of several of the houses
had not been mowed in some time, and there
were bicycles lying around which had seen heavy
use: in my neighborhood everybody mowed his
lawn on Saturday, and the bicycles were all new.
I parked the car at the curb and went up to
the front door. This lawn was in worse shape
(han any other on the block, and as I got up to
the house, I could see inside because there were
no blinds or shades. The rooms were all totally
empty of furniture, but all the lights seemed to
be on. I knocked on the door, and after a mo-
ment I heard somebody come out of the attached
garage at one side of the house and clear his
throat. I looked around, and a slender man was
standing in the driveway in the dusk, looking
sort of tired and annoyed.
"Rudd?" he said. "I'm in here," and he went
back in the garage.
I followed him inside the garage, he pulled
down the overhead door, and we looked at each
other in the light cast by a naked bulb in the
ceiling. He was about forty-five, wearing glasses
on a bony, dispirited nose, and he was dressed in
old Air Force fatigues, with a faded Air Force
patch on the left shoulder. He didn't offer to
shake hands.
"Let's go on inside," he said. "We can talk
in there," and we went into the empty house,
down some dusty but uncluttered stairs and into
the empty basement, where another naked bulb
hung from the ceiling. I looked around, but
there was no furniture in the basement either,
so I remained standing: I didn't feel like sitting
on those stairs in my best suit.
"Well," he said, leaning against a wall and
lighting a cigarette. "I've been reading your
file."
"Oh," I said.
"Yeah," he said. "Who contacted you first?"
"I don't recall his name," I said, right back at
him. They might get me for jacking up the
price, but not for spilling my guts.
"Okay," he said. "Tell me about yourself."
"Well," I said, "my situation is not what it
was, you know. I told them all about myself
before. But it's not like that anymore. What I
mean is, I have a job now."
"What do you mean, 'like it was before'?" he
said. "When was that? When you first applied?"
"I didn't apply," I said. "I was, uh, con-
tacted."
"But you don't remember who the contact
was," he said, and sneered pretty openly. I
opened my mouth, but he held up his hand.
"Never mind," he said. "Your application is in
your file, and there's a note saying you accepted
at fifty-six hundred. Now you want almost twice
that. What's that all about, Rudd?"
"That's what I explained," I said. "In the
letter. Didn't you— I mean, didn't they get my
letter? They must've gotten my letter. I ex-
plained all that. I owe a lot mor^ money now
than I did. I mean, I have a family now."
"Yeah," he said. There was a pause, while he
lighted another cigarette. "You know how much
I make?" he suddenly asked, glaring at me. "A
hell of a lot less than you want. A hell of a lot
less. And I've been with 'em since 1945."
"Well," I said, but I couldn't think of any-
thing else.
"Okay, Rudd," he said, straightening up from
the wall. "I've got to send in a report on this,
you understand. I'm pretty pressed for time, but
I'll be as fair as I can."
"Well," I said, but he started up the stairs and
I followed him back out into the garage. This
time I noticed there was an open quart can of
cream-colored paint on the floor and a four-inch
brush. I looked at them, but I didn't say any-
thing, and I went on out to my car. As I drove
away the garage door was still open, and I could
see him in there, painting one of the walls with
a cigarette dangling from the corner of his
mouth, and that was my last contact with the
boys in Washington. I never got a letter telling
me my case had been closed, and I never wrote
to ask if it had been closed.
About a year after I saw the man in the empty
house I moved away from that city, leaving my
ranch-style rambler behind, along with Allen
Tate's tweed cap, which somehow or other got
thrown out with some old Army pants of mine,
and I gradually forgot all about the Central
Intelligence Agency until it was accused of
ruining Mr. Eisenhower's Summit meeting in
Paris. Ever since that happened I've been won-
dering what had become of my old friend the
recruiting officer: he was such a smooth type that
I expect he could survive any sort of a bureau-
cratic shake-up, but I'm not so sure about the
garage painter, Mr. Brown. Where in the world,
I ask myself, is Mr. Brown? In what garage is he
interviewing people now?
Harper's Magazine, October 1961
WILLIE MORRIS
HOUSTON'S
SUPERPATRIOTS
How they are turning a once-sensible
city into a mecca for zany cults,
scared millionaires . . . and exceedingly
prosperous political evangelists.
LAST summer a member of the Texas
House of Representatives was walking down
a busy thoroughfare in Houston when suddenly
he heard a booming voice proclaim, "America is
a republic. It is not a democracy." He looked
around for the source. It was a loud-speaker in a
low-flying airplane, and attached to the tail of
the craft was a huge streamer which cryptically
advised, "Impeach Earl Warren."
It takes uncommon self-assurance, even in
Texas, to make the sky your rostrum. But in
Houston a battalion of Salvationists have recently
commandeered the heavens— and hundreds of
more mundane platforms— to preach their diverse
superpatriotic certitudes. In growing numbers,
the citizens of that expansive country town are
listening in rapt attention, believing— or fearing
—that these compelling evangelists of the far
right have found the definitive answer to the
world's troubles. We more retiring Texans are
beginning to watch in awe the rise of this prairie
mecca for political messiahs— both the John
Birchers and the older native sectarians as well—
who may soon make eccentric Los Angeles look
modest by comparison.
In this adolescent among American cities— it
was twentieth in population in 1940 and is now
sixth-these peddling patriots have a rich mar-
ket. For the oil and chemical capital of the
world is only a lew years and a few miles re-
moved from the hellfire faiths of the frontier.
The strength and intensity of the superpatriottc
movement owe much to a yearning after the old-
style pulpit evangelism, a brooding suspicion of
"intellectuals," a temperamental distrust of what
the Feds are up to in Washington, a rising fear
of Communist successes in a world threatened by
nuclear destruction. Houston is a city of new-
comers, and the newcomers are on the make:
young men and women fresh from the East Texas
boondocks, young professionals and technicians
and industrial managers from all over the nation
who are turning the swamps into scrubbed sub-
urbias and who often are willing to take the
nostrimis of their bosses as their very own.
These modern patrioteers have been active in
Houston for quite a while. In 1953 the Houston
Post published a devastating series on the Minute
Women, a feminine vigilante group which com-
petes with the musca domestica in nuisance
value. "There exists a reign of terror among
patriotic clergymen, editors, and schoolteachers
here," the Post said, "particularly those in the
slightest interested in social improvements."
From all indications, however, the 'fifties were
nothing more than a gestation period. As the
Cold War gets colder, and particularly since the
election of a reforming Democratic Administra-
tion and the impertinences of Castro, the Hous-
ton patrioteers have got going as never before.
Of late they have been sharing their homey
wisdom with PTAs, churches and church groups,
school assemblies, plush banqueting forums,
military reserve meetings, civic clubs, profes-
sional caucuses, and neighborhood socials. Their
favorite movie dramas— the House Un-American
Activities Committee's Operation Abolition and
the ominous film from Searcy, Arkansas,
Communism on the Mfl/>— have perhaps reached
more people in Houston than Gone xuith
the Wind. You can hear the patrioteering folk
49
on radio, watch them on television, and follow
their escapades in the newspapers; and they have
promoted the tape-recorded "message" into what
now must be one of the most booming businesses
in the Southwest. Anyone who has watched them
a I work for a spell, in fact, will begin to suspect
that tlie tape-recording people are behind it all.
A Houston patrioteer without a tape-recorder is
like his pioneer grandpap without a six-shooter.
Mr. Robert Welch, the major-domo of the
Joliii Birch Society, has named Houston and Los
Angeles his two strongest cities. But his Houston
prestige is enhanced, he has explained, because
"you do not have the left-wing opposition in
Houston that we have in places like Los An-
geles. . . ." This assurance did not dissuade a
local disciple, who owns a laundry and sponsors
some of the more enlightening radio shows, from
hiring private detectives to protect him from the
city's subversives. In a tape-recorded talk before
the Salesmanship Club in the Rice Hotel, he
said, "The John Birch Society does not see Com-
munists under every bed because American cow-
ards have already taken all the room." Asked
about Attorney General Kennedy's statement
that he was having the FBI check on the Birchers,
he replied, "I had a member of my chapter do
that [run a check] on the society and on me.
Then I told him, 'Son, it takes two to tango, so
I'm going to have you checked.' I haven't seen
him since."
When Mr. Welch himself came to town at the
invitation of the local Sons of the American
Revolution, he spoke before 3,000 cheering souls
and a galaxy of tape-recorders. After the three
Houston dailies published critical editorials on
the Birch Society, the letters-to-the-editor col-
umns crackled in defense. "If Mr. Robert Welch
is a paranoiac," said a fairly typical missive,
"then let us have more paranoiacs in Washing-
ton instead of the eggheads who managed, in
fifteen short years, to reduce the greatest nation
on the face of the earth into an abjectly humili-
ated, morally weakened, almost bankrupt laugh-
ing stock of the world. What manner of men
may these be, who extended their liberal cause
to benefit the enemy?"
William W. Morris, editor of "The Texas Ob-
server'— an "Independent-Liberal Weekly News-
paper" published in Austin — tvos editor of the
student newspaper when he attended the University
of Texas, and president of the American Students
Association when he was a Rhodes Scholar at
Oxford.
The patrioteers have opened a Conservative
Bookstore in a new suburban shopping center.
Here such literary and philosophical guideposts
as The Income Tax— Root of All Evils, A Youth's
Primer to the Confederacy— What the Historians
Left Out, and How to Plan an Anti-Subversive
Seminar are available for purchase or browsing.
A nice cross section of Birch literature can be
had there, along with the collected writings of
Adam Smith, Herbert Spencer, and M^illiam F.
Buckley, Jr. Latest intelligence reports arc dis-
played on the bulletin board, where one finds
exposed the brainwashing movies being shown
"right here in Houston"— including such films as
Inherit the Wind, Exodus, and Spartacus. In
contrast, the board announces that the Cardinal
Mindszenty Foundation has seventy chapters in
Houston and may be heard each night on Station
KTRH fighting for freedom. Clippings of local
speeches by gentlemen like J. Bracken Lee of
Utah, "a great patriot" who believes in great
reforms "including repeal of the income tax,"
are also on exhibit.
THEY CAME LIKE SWALLOWS
DURING this spring and summer, some of
America's most dedicated oracles came to
town. Kenneth Goff, pastor of an independent
Baptist church in Denver and an occasional plat-
form speaker with Gerald L. K. Smith, visited in
June. He told his audience he had been a mem-
ber of the Communist party from 1936 to 1939.
Since he broke with the Communists, he said, his
life has been in constant danger. He slapped his
artificial leg and said the Reds pushed him under
a train. "Unless the people of this country are
awakened," he warned, "I give this country less
than ten years before socialism takes over com-
pletely." There are, he said, 7,000 to 8,000
Communists and fellow travelers in American
churches and 1,600 in the teaching profession,
although he could not recall the names of any
of them in Houston. His visit was sponsored by
several businessmen and by the Gulf Coast
United Anti-Communist League.
Dr. Billy James Hargis, founder of Christian
Crusade out of Tulsa, also a June visitor, arrived
in a streamlined, air-conditioned bus with two
bedrooms, two baths, a living-room, and a radio-
telephone. He stayed long enough to condemn,
as the Houston Chronicle reported, "Commun-
ism, liberalism, the National Council of
Churches, federal aid to education, Jack Paar,
federal medical care for the aged, Ed Sullivan,
the recent Kennedy-Khrushchev meeting, Eleanor
I
50
HOUSTON'S SUPERPATRIOTS
Roosevelt, disarmament, Steve Allen, and the
Freedom Riders." Speaking before a jjhalanx of
tape-recorders, he dismissed the brotherhood-of-
man idea as "hogwash." "I find most of those who
criticize me are allied with those who follow the
[Communist] party line," he confided.
Major Edgar C. Bundy, general chairman of
the Church League of America and author of
Collectivism in the Churches, stopped off in May.
The following, he disclosed, are helping com-
munism in the United States: the churches and
church leaders, educators, newspapers, the
YWCA, the American Civil Liberties Union, the
White House, advisers for the Peace Corps, the
Supreme Court, and thousands of Americans
"who have been duped by the Communist-front
organizations. ... [J. Edgar] Hoover said the
only way to combat the Communist menace in
the churches is by sticking to the fundamentals
of religion. I can just hear the liberals in Hous-
ton screaming at Hoover's words."
Clarence Manion, former dean of the Notre
Dame law school, a member of the Birch Society
council, and the Birchers' favorite to take over
for Chief Justice Earl Warren after they get the
latter impeached, also came to town in May,
invited by the Houston Bar Association to speak
at naturalization ceremonies on Law Day. "Don't
tell me of the shrinking, gutless Americans-
some of them in high places— I say to them, talk
not to me of peace at a time like this. I am fed
to the teeth with equivocations." He modestly
admitted that support of him for a Supreme
Court post by some Birchers was "just an aca-
demic accolade."
Dan Smoot, a news commentator, came down
to keynote a July the Fourth rally. He spent a
good part of his time discussing the kinship of
modern liberalism with socialism and bolshevism.
Asking for a restriction of federal power, he said
the taxes levied by government today are used
to finance "things far more harmful than King
George the Third ever thought of." Smoot had
an audience of forty thousand.
FACETS
FOR THE DUPLOMATS
SO I T goes, this upsurge of the patrioteers
in the South's largest city. How can it be
explained? Why is the lushest growth in Houston
rather than Memphis or Fort Worth or particu-
larly Dallas, a town whose civic (C)nservatism has
been more abiding than Houston's?
For one thing, a militant climate ol ;inti-iniel-
lectualism is natural in any burgeoning pro-
vincial metropolis. For want, it would seem, of
better-rooted and more sophisticated wisemen,
many in the town accept uncritically those force-
ful and self-assured preachers, company execu-
tives, insurance men, doctors, and industrial
consultants as experts on public affairs and par-
ticularly on the last several decades of American
history. A typical audience of Houston patri-
oteers would take the word of one wealthy in-
surance executive on the Communist menace in
preference to the combined wisdom of George
Kennan, Arthur Schlesinger, Jr., Isaiah Berlin,
Edmund Wilson, and Dean Rusk. The patri-
oteers thrive on the homespun democratic idea
that a man need have no credentials to be an
expert. His best equipment is a good speaking
voice, knowledge of the Scriptures, and a tower-
ing dedication. It is no surprise that in the
vernacular of the Houston patrioteers, intellec-
tuals are habitually labeled "ineffectual" or "soft
on Communism." A recent issue of a local patri-
oteering newsletter, 'for example, in discussing
the U-2 incident and speculation on whether
Powers was shot down, concluded: "Those facets
we'll leave for the intellectual 'duplomats' to
discuss."
Much of this distrust of the "intellectuals" has
been channeled into protests against dangerous
books. In 1957 a member of the school board
initiated a controversy by condemning a text-
book which had a preface praising the UN, a
chapter entitled "It's All One World," and a
passage saying the government is obligated "to
promote the welfare of the people." Recently
J. D. Salinger has been catching some of this
provincial wrath. A prominent Houston lawyer
and member of the Port Commission announced
he was withdrawing his daughter from the Uni-
versity of Texas at the end of the semester when
he learned she was required to read Catcher in
the Rye in an English class. The aggrieved father
sent copies to the governor, the chancellor of the
university, and a number of state officials. The
state senator from Houston threatened to read
passages from the book on the senate floor to
show the sort of thing they teach in Austin. The
lawyer-father said Salinger used language "no
sane person would use" and accused the university
of "corrupting the moral fibers of our youth."
He added that the novel "is not a hard-core Com-
munist-type book, but it encourages a lessening
of spiritual values which in turn leads to com-
munism."
The executive secretary of the United Society
of Methodist Laymen, Inc., who travels all over
the country and who says he gets his strongest
BY WILLIE MORRIS
51
support in Houston, told a large gathering of
matrons in the Briarcroft Club that American
youth is being demoralized by pornographic
literature in Protestant churches. "It is part of
an attempt to transform the Christian faith into
a sex cult and to raise your children as a genera-
tion of sex perverts," he said, speaking before a
bank of twenty tape-recorders. The first rule of
communism is to corrupt the young, he warned.
"Only one thing can stop me in this campaign,"
the Houston Post reported him as saying. "That's
death itself. If it be at the hands of Communist
bullets, so be it."
One civic-minded matron and Birch member
in Channelview, on Houston's outskirts, dis-
covered there was a book. Living Biographies of
Greek Philosophers, in the scheol library. "Plato
talks about free love and communal living and
such, and that's not meant for thirteen- and
fourteen-year-olds," she said. Also, Plato was a
student of Socrates and "the people at that time
poisoned Socrates for the ideas he was spread-
ing," she remembered. "The school library must
be cleaned out. I haven't been in it, but they
have many books, and some bad ones are bound
to slip through." Hajjpily, at the next meeting
of the district school board, the trustees staved
off attempts at censorship, refused to have the
meeting tape-recorded, and reported that the
superintendent himself was compiling a study of
library books,
BOLSHEVISM
SINCE GENESIS I
AS E C O N D major source of the patri-
oteers' fervor is the fearsome evangelical
fundamentalism which is native to the East
Texas Bible Belt and funnels into metropolitan
Houston. The literature of the superpatriots
bristles with indictments of "liberal theology"
and seeks a return to strict fundamentalist doc-
trine. In its brimming emotionalism, a Houston
anti-Communist rally is much like a religious
tent revival. The rhetoric is often Biblical; the
stress is on a dedication of Christian souls to
ferret out the Reds at home and abroad; the
"lost" are those duped by FDR and the Com-
munists, who have departed from the simple
earthy faith of their fathers to take up such
Kremlin-oriented schemes as urban renewal, aid
to depressed areas, and labor unions. To the
free-wheeling Houston evangelists, if the Na-
tional Council of Churches is not an adjunct
of the Kremlin, it is most assuredly in active
radio contact.
The Belfort Baptist Church was not content
this year to withdraw from one convention, it
withdrew from three: the Union Baptist Associa-
tion, the Baptist General Convention of Texas,
and the Southern Baptist Convention. The
preacher commented: "Only the old is good, but
this new or neo-orthodoxy is of the devil." A
local Methodist minister has been making the
rounds of other churches, civic clubs, and mili-
tary units with a pat sermon entitled "Who Else
Serves Communism?" "Those who serve com-
munism," he declares, "are not just those in
Moscow, the fellow travelers, and dupes, but also
those who claim to believe in God, and by their
lives endorse the atheistic view of communism."
But the fundamentalist sects have not been
alone in rejecting the social gospel. There have
been similar rumblings, for instance, from the
Episcopal church that serves River Oaks, the
most exclusive residential area in the city. A
group of ultra-conservative businessmen have
just organized an "Association for Christian
Schools" with the purpose of advancing "the
cause of Christian education." One of the names
affixed to the explanatory letter was one T.
Robert Ingram, rector of another Episcopal
Church, St. Thomas, in one of the city's newer
suburbs. As an Episcopalian, Ingram holds an
undisputed lead as High Priest of the Houston
patrioteers. His picture adorns a wall of the
Conservative Bookstore, and from all one can
gather he believes the world has been drifting
steadily toward bolshevism since Genesis 1:1.
Ingram has edited a pamphlet entitled Essays on
Segregation, billed as "a collection of writings
by six Episcopalian clergymen, one of them a
bishop, exploring the Christian foundations for
the racial settlement in the South called segrega-
tion, and exposing 'integration' as an attack on
mankind's greatest treasure, faith in Jesus
Christ." In a typical sermon, he rather curiously
linked "this matter of mental health" with the
ominous power by which "labor unions have
marched to virtual control of all government in
the United States."
In this atmosphere, it was no surprise that
when President Kennedy appeared before the
Houston ministers in his dramatic confrontation
of the religious issue last autumn, the first ques-
tion asked him concerned, not separation of
church and state, but the right-to-work laws.
Under this steady crossfire from fellow gentle-
men of the cloih, a nimibcr of Protestant leaders
have fought back, liishop James A. Pike of
California c;imc lo town and charged that an
Episcopal la\man iu Houston had "smeared"
52
HOUSTON'S SUPERPATRIOTS
him as a Communist and that the Houston
Minute Women "had used pamphlets and pres-
sured university officials" in an unsuccessful at-
tempt to keep him from speaking at Rice last
year. The Association of Churches of Greater
Houston has established a committee to combat
charges of infiltration. "A lot of good men have
been maligned and made victims of virtual char-
acter assassination by people coming in and mak-
ing charges of communism," said the president, a
Presbyterian minister. "The committee is the
result of our just getting fed up about being
charged with everything from communism to sex
disorders."
"why am I DOING IT?"
BY ALL odds the most effective single
agency in uniting fervent evangelism with
thundering conservatism in Houston has been a
national organization called the Christian Anti-
Communism Crusade. Going about their work
with all the primitive vigor of an orgiastic sun-
rise revival, the Crusaders spoke 300 times in
Houston in 1960 to more than 60,000 people in
churches, schools, clubs, and business groups.
The guiding light behind the Crusade nation-
ally is a former Australian medical doctor named
Fred C. Schwarz; it is his admiring disciple, W. P.
Strube Jr., who leads the fight in Houston.
Strube's academic grounding was in Naval
ROTC at two West Coast universities, and he is
now president of an insurance company. He
modestly concedes in one of his many pocket-
sized pamphlets that he is "one of America's
leading authorities" on the subject of "the Com-
munists' tactics in the Cold War." According to
Strube, the testimony of his tutor. Dr. Schwarz,
before the House Un-American Activities Com-
mittee "had a wider circulation in this country
than any document except possibly the Bill of
Rights, the Declaration of Independence, and the
Constitution." When he first heard Schwarz in
1952, "I shivered and shook for ten minutes,
took a towel of apathy, and went about my way."
Later, when he found the Australian to be "the
most dedicated man I ever knew," he joined the
Crusade in earnest and is now vice-president.
"Why am I doing it?" Strube says. "I have two
reasons. I have two beautiful children, whom I
love very much."
Strube is a fearsome platform orator, often
hypnotic in effect. By his own count he spoke
against communism 150 limes in 195H, .^00 times
in 1959, and about 400 times in I960. The
Ousade, in addition, distributes jiamf>hlets and
books by the gross, as well, of course, as tape-
recordings (such as "Why Do Millionaires, Minis-
ters of Religion, and College Professors Become
Communists" and "Insurance Against Commu-
nism"). Strube's office is equipped with nine
portable tape-recorders tended by technicians
taping new and old talks by Strube and his
associates, along with three giant tape-reproduc-
ing machines.
In one of Strube's early manuals, a crude
mimeographed affair as compared to the slick
literature he circulates today, he sounded a
clarion which seemed to suggest that he would
have been happier with a saber and a commis-
sion from J. E. B. Stuart. "Carrying on the
lessons from the militia in wartimes as it existed
in the United States from 1776 until nearly the
outbreak of World War II," he wrote, "these
political guerrilla bands must be tightly organ-
ized. Few in numbers, but mighty in Spirit
could well serve as a Modus Operandi." He
advised: "If you become depressed, write us for
suggestions on how to rehabilitate your group. . . .
By using tape-recordings, the experts can be
taken into homes, schools, Sunday schools, classes,
etc. . . . We must have fast and mass dissemina-
tion of the information if we are to preserve our
freedom."
Strube's prose sometimes reads like a military
dispatch from Richard Coeur de Lion: "Take
first the helmet of Salvation, then the breast-
plate of righteousness, gird your loins with the
truth, prepare your feet for the propagation of
the Gospel, which will set men free. Take the
shield of faith and the sword of the Spirit, which
is the Word of God, and move forward into
battle. . . ."
The Crusade's "Teens Against Communism
Clubs" have been well received. At Jesse H.
Jones High School, for instance, students at-
tended weekly Thursday night anticommunism
programs sponsored by the teens clubs them-
selves. Films from Harding College in Searcy,
Arkansas (a kind of war college for the patri-
oteers of the area and perhaps of the whole
nation) were shown, along with Operation Abo-
lition. At one night's program, with 800 in
attendance, the supervisor of history, economics,
and civics courses in Houston's secondary schools
spoke, and said the program was filled with "fine
things." Strube delivered one of his basic
diatribes, and a standard Crusade speaker who
is guidance director in a local high school said
Communists were "very successful" in inciting
the San Francisco student riots and that they
were trying to make U. S. youth "decadent and
BY WILLIE MORRIS
53
immoral." He warned that the Reds are inter-
ested "in getting filthy literature in your hands.
They definitely are."
Last spring Strube served as general director of
a typical Crusade-originated Freedom Forum in
Houston's Shamrock-Hilton hotel. He advertised
the event in his newsletter:
We trust that as the Lord challenges your heart to
this missionary opportunity you will become a sales-
man, a prayer warrior, and a supporter of the effort.
We trust that as you give your financial assistance to
this cause, you will do so not grudgingly or of neces-
sity, for the Lord loveth a cheerful giver.* Marx
said. "Workers of the world imite, you have nothing
to lose but your chains." History has proven this to
be a lie. We say instead, "Americans of Houston
UNITE, your most precious possession is endangered,
your FREEDOM." . . .
Tape Recorders— "Do It Yourself" facilities will be
available for 2.5 recorders. 1,800 ft. blank tape, $2.
"Let Us Do It"-Two Speeches on 1,800 ft. tape, $5.
There were fidl houses on each of the four
Saturdays in the Emerald Room of the Shamrock-
Hilton, and some 2,000 additional townsfolk
watched the doings in an adjoining room on
closed-circuit television. Films, tape-recordings,
and lecttircs were featured on the programs,
which began at 9:30 a.m. and lasted until late
'into the night.
Schwarz, the Crusade president and one of the
lecturers, said everything is a weapon in the
Cold War, including art, religion, language, and
diplomacy. When the Russian ballet comes to
America and charms an audience, it is a victory
for the Russians. The Reds are running ahead
of their schedule to take over the United States
by 1973. Pointing at the businessmen and junior
executives assembled in the plush hall, Schwarz
said, "You are the most stupid segment of the
American people. Comparing your success with
Communist achievements, the only possible pre-
diction is that you won't have any businesses left
in the next ten or fifteen years." Other experts
included two former FBI men, an Army sergeant
from San Antonio, and an industrial consultant
from Kansas City.
THE "word" on tape
BUT the holiest temple of the patrioteers
has its roots even deeper in Houston than
the Crusade. This is the Berachah Church, one
of the most impressive new religious phenomena
* Philip Horton (in The Reporter, July 20, 1961)
said that gross receipts of the Crusade, a tax-free or-
ganization, were $63,000 in 1957. S380.000 in 1960,
and estimated at §1 million for 1961.
in the whole country. The faithful may come
every day of the week except Saturdays, and
three times on Sundays, for scriptural sanction.
Berachah Church is "nondenominational," dis-
pensing the old rural fundamentalism close to
the hearts of the Houston immigrants not long
removed from the piney woods and swamp bot-
toms, but with a sharp suburban cut. As its
pastor explains, "Fundamentalism has been mis-
defined in this country. For a generation it has
been associated with frothing at the mouth and
rolling in the aisles. Actually, fundamentalism
is real conservatism in theology."
The sign in front of the huge streamlined
temple reads: "They Assembled Themselves in
the Valley of Berachah for There They Blessed
the Lord." Here in a wealthy new suburban area
in southwest Houston, disgruntled members of
other congregations have been assembling in
growing numbers. Two years ago the church was
housed in a renovated Ouonset hut in a some-
what shabbier precinct. Today, although the
foam-rubber seats in its massive auditorium will
take care of 1,000, and although there is a
labyrinth of rooms built outward from it, the
chtxrch is overflowing every service and the Sun-
day school is unable to accommodate another
child. Now Berachah is expanding again with
another 1,000 seats and additional rooms in the
offing.
The tape-recording room will have to be en-
larged also. Located just off the main auditorium,
it will only handle three dozen machines at
present, and that is not enough. Members of the
congregation bring their own recorders, plug
them in private outlets, and watch. There is
also a "tape ministry" in Berachah Church; more
than twenty recordings are made of each sermon
and dispatched with zeal to all parts of the
world. The pastor is well known, it is said, "for
not uttering a word without a microphone in
front of him."
How can Berachah's growth be explained? "Be-
cause people are starved for the word of God as
it was written," a secretary said, "and not as it's
being preached in some of these pulpits."
As the Berachah brethren read it, the word of
God might be interpreted in its political content
to be only slightly to the left of King Alfred.
The pastor. Colonel Bob Thieme, is a Phi Beta
Kappa graduate of the University of Arizona
who had to give up a Rhodes Scholarship to
serve in the Army in World War II. He is now
active in the Air Force reserve and is an expert
pistol marksman. After the war he graduated
from fundamentalist Dallas Theological Semi-
54
HOUSTON'S SUPERPATRIOTS
nary. Thiemc, who says 5,000 people come
through his church during an average week, has
orated at Christian Anti-Communism Crusade
functions; the Birch Society, in his opinion, "ap-
pears to be doing a very fine job." Nine times
out of ten, he says, folks who are conservative
about the scriptures will be conservative politi-
cally. He interprets the stanch ultraconservatism
of Houston with stark simplicity: "It's because
of a wide dissemination of Bible-teaching in this
area."
MONDAY NIGHT FIGHTS
TH E role of Houston's officialdom during
the rise of the patrioteers has been ambigu-
ous. Tolerant and quiescent, perhaps through
caution, the generally conservative fathers have
avoided taking a stand on the superpatriots'
issue-mongering. It was no surprise this July that
when the Texas American Legion decided to ask
Congress to investigate both the State Depart-
ment and the Supreme Court, they were conven-
ing in Houston when they did it. The climate
there is favorable— though certainly not every city
official is a Bircher or a Minute Woman. Quite
the contrary: recent mayors have been liberal or
moderately so; city politics is free-wheeling and
open.
The Houston school board, however, regularly
sallies forth on ideological tangents congenial to
the patrioteers. So much so that the board itself
has become one of the most avidly discussed
topics in town, and its televised sessions are some-
times called the "Monday night fights." The
school board's politically colored actions began
in the 'fifties when anti-UNESCO candidates ran
in the elections; "Save the Schools from Social-
ism" was a favorite rallying cry; and textbooks
were expurgated for sundry reasons. Liberal-
conservative margins were often close, but there
was allegedly a time when a majority of the
members were either Minute Women or hus-
bands of Minute Women. The present president
of the board is a member of the DAR and a
winner of the Houston Sons of the Revolution's
award for her "continuing battle against social-
istic liberalism in modern education." She has
also been victorious in rejecting federal funds
for milk for school children.
It would be difficult, in fact, to distinguish
some of the recent actions of the board from the
practical dictums of a Birch study cell. For ex-
ample, this summer the local chapter of the
American Civil Liberties Union wanted to rent
one of the school auditoriums lor a talk by its
national executive secretary, Patrick Malin. But
the board members, alert to all threats, promptly
passed a motion (with one dissenting vote cast by
Mrs. Charles E. ^Vhite, a Negro and the sole
liberal on the board) denying auditorium
facilities to any organization or persons whose
thinking "was not in keeping with that of Hous-
tonians." This disposed of, the board later an-
noimced that two loyalty oaths woidd be
required for futme rentals: one by a representa-
tive of the applying groiqD and another by the
proposed speaker. "We don't want any Com-
mimist speakers or Communist group meetings
in our public schools," the president said.
Again the board bestirred itself when a lady
named Margaret Bleil, who had thirty years'
teaching experience, was recommended for a
higher position by both her school principal and
the city superintendent. Unfortunately, she had
been president of the Houston Teachers' Associa-
tion seven years ago when that organization had
invited the Nation;U Education .Association to do
a study of tlie Houston schools. The NEA made
a rather unfavorable report. .Although Mrs. Bleil
as president of the teachers' organization had not
cast a vote when the invitation was made, her
promotion Avas not approved; as the vice-chair-
man of the board explained later, "Someone as
controversial as that shoidd not be promoted."
Yet another case involved a young history
teacher named Kenneth Parker. .\ local Minute
^\'onian had heard that Parker had dropped a
few controversial comments in class. In order to
(heck for herself, she invited him to her home.
She j)layed a tape-recording of a patrioteering
speech and quizzed Parker on his opinions. Since
she was not satisfied, she consulted her friend,
the school-board president, who instituted a
more formal check on the teacher. Meanwhile,
the civic-minded Minute "Woman reportedly re-
ceived special reports from adults who came into
Parker's classes and took notes. After a prolonged
controversy, he resigned, affirming in exaspera-
tion that he was a Christian, a John Fitzgerald
Kennedy Democrat, and an active Democratic
precinct '\vorker. The Minute Woman and her
sjiouse commented that his departure was a good
thing "because of his reluctance to tell us he
was a Christian and the ultraliberal views he
expounded in the classroom." The school board
at first accepted his resignation: later he was
merely suspended temporarily, then transferred
to another high school and placed on "day-to-
day" probation. Young Parker, who has since
had a more lucrative teaching job offered in New
York, was not a good sport about it; he said his
BY WILLIE MORRIS
55
encounter with the Minute Woman was the be-
ginning of an "eleven-month organized, anony-
mous plot to humiliate, embarrass, and harass
me."
DON T LET THEM
TAKE IT AWAY
HOUSTON is "the last stronghold and
concentrated seat of rugged individual-
ism," says the director of city planning, and he
goes back to the early ranch economy of the area
to help explain it. On this rugged tradition has
been superimposed the gloss of first- and second-
generation wealth.
"Abolish the Income Tax"— that perennial slo-
gan of the wealthy right— is a magnet for new
patrioteers. As a local realtor likes to say in de-
scribing one of the inveterate contributors, "He'd
rather get a part of the income tax abolished
than be visited every night of the year by six
sixteen-year-old virgins."
When H. L. Hunt, the Dallas billionaire, de-
cided last spring to break a long public silence
and come to Houston for some speech-making, it
was like the entry of a saintly old warrior
knight into a camp of medieval barons. "The
country is so far gone," advised the man who
subsidizes more political proselytizing than just
about anyone else in the nation and who advo-
cated in his novel, Alpaca, that the right to vote
be based on wealth, "that I am willing to do
anything I can to dispel the apathy of the peo-
ple." He said, among other things: Calvin Cool-
idge was the last President he approved; 2 per
cent of the American people are Reds, 2 per cent
active patriots, 18 per cent Red sympathizers or
dupes, and the remaining 78 per cent "dor-
mand"; the $11 billion a year which business
spends on advertising should be used to promote
patriotic themes. At a press conference, his
daughters sang new words to songs which ex-
pressed their father's views, such as this stanza
to the tune of "School Days":
Listen to what our Popsy says.
Don't give an inch to any Red . . .
Although there are notable exceptions, rare
indeed is the Houston magnate of new money
who would not stand squarely with Hunt and
Cal Coolidge in the political spectrum, several
degrees to the right of the late Robert A. Taft.
So much of the big Houston money was made
overnight by digging a hole in the ground, or
passed along intact from quick-rich fathers, that
as one Houstonian explains it, "They've sud-
denly come into a lot of money, and they're
afraid the government's going to take it away
from them." Equally exasperated, large numbers
of the more moderately rich have concluded that
they are "working for someone else." They are
looking for sweeping answers, and among the
Houston patrioteers, sweeping answers are part
of the business.
Four years or so ago, when the liberal move-
ment in Texas began to cast a dark shadow
across the city, a number of the Houston oil, gas,
insurance, and utilities companies— usually the
home-based ones— began importing firebrand
speakers of the George Roberts type. (George
Roberts, a former college teacher of hazy aca-
demic background, was hired as "industrial con-
sultant" by several large Houston firms which
felt that their employees needed their politics
straightened out. He was also signed up to give
five required lectures to all history, civics, and
economics teachers in the Houston system.) Sem-
inars for company executives became a standard
practice. Freedom-In-Action, a semisecret poli-
tical organization which is the brain child of
Houston's own Elwood Fonts, an active Liberty
Leaguer in the 'thirties, moved into the breach.
For the city's growing class of junior executives,
political-action movements of the conservative
stripe have become just another part of getting
ahead.
Many good ladies of leisure have likewise con-
tributed to the rise of the patrioteers— house-
wives in Tanglewood and in the cloistered piney
woods around Memorial Drive as well as in the
newer and slightly less elite suburbs. "Their
husbands are on the way up," one slightly cyni-
cal matron says, "and they suddenly become
aware of this income-tax business." They are
usually more vocal and more active in letter
writing and the busier types of nagging agitation
than the patrioteer male of the species.
The Houston Junior Chamber of Commerce,
which sometimes likes to call itself the largest
Jaycee organization in the world, has provided
a central forum for the patrioteers, and serves
as a fairly reliable gauge of the raging dissatis-
factions of the younger business set. A recent
president, William Hollis, is a full-time, salaried
organizer for the political movement, Freedom-
In-Action. Jaycee banquets have been well
stocked with speakers like Strube and Fonts. At
a recent Jaycee-sponsored political rally, one of
the more vociferous local patrioteers— a candi-
date for Congress on the far-right Constitutional
party ticket who has challenged Lyndon Johnson
to fist fights in his speeches— was introduced as
56
HOUSTON'S SUPERPATRIOTS
the Houston Jaycees' "Man of the Year." The
organization has also recently given an "Ameri-
canism" award to Fonts, which is at least tanta-
mount to tacit approval of his organization's
perfcrvid opposition to social security, imem-
pl(nnicnt compensation, foreign aid. the United
Nations, and all the classic bugaboos of the
patriotecrs.
The contrast \vhich Houston presents in rela-
tion to Dallas these davs is striking. Big D, only
240 miles away, has been a traditional center of
conservatism in the Southwest. It most assuredly
has never been without what George Fuer-
mann. in his excellent Texas study. Reluctant
Empire, calls "a minority of fanatical national-
ists." Anti-Semitism has never been a flaming
issue in Houston as it has sometimes been in
Dallas, and art exhibitions have never been ex-
pimged in Houston with such fine relish. Dallas
conservatism, however, is more abiding. Hous-
ton coidd be a liberal city at some point in the
future, as it has threatened to be on occasion
in the past: but it will probably take a revolu-
tion for Dallas ever again to vote Democratic.
Dallas conservatism, withal, is more sophisti-
cated, just as the city itself. But Houston, says
Hubert MeAvhinney of the Houston Post, is a
whiskey and trombone town.
Being more openly and ardently democratic,
Houston is a city of taut ideological extremes.
It remains the center of economic liberalism in
Texas. It is a growing industrial city, and the
clash between organized labor and management
produces greater friction. The Dallas delegation
to the state's lower house is conservative to the
man. The Houston delegation includes two lib-
erals, a moderate, and five conservatives. The
Dallas conservatives, however, are not patrio-
teers; Houston's are.
SFCRETS OF THE "fREE"
THE political leadership of the liberals in
Houston is undoubtedly more liberal than
anywhere else in the state. Correspondingly,
the conservative leadership is more conservative.
The middle ground has dwindled. In the recent
seventy-man first |)riniary to fill Lyndon John-
son's place in the Senate, it is significant that the
candidates who fitn'shed one-two in the city were
the most conservative and the most liberal in the
race. Amid this growing polarization of jjolitical
thr)ught, the patiiotecrs ha\e energetically in-
terjected I lull loiigh-hewn idea that a man is
cither a Connnunisi dupe or he isn't.
The a(ti\c jjolilical arm ol ilic j>.iirioieers is
Freedom-In-Action, a national but Houston-
based organization which has never been want-
ing in appropriations to get through a difficult
winter. It channels large sums of money into
elections, lines up strength at the precinct level,
and conducts programs on the heartier tech-
niques of political in-fighting. Robert Welch
listed FIA as one of the organizations his fol-
lowers should support, and there is a great over-
lap in Houston membership. Although it is a
semisecret society, FIA is undoubtedly at its peak
strength in Houston. It maintains a selective re-
cruitment policy, and its members must sign a
written pledge to guarantee them, as its litera-
ture says, "free from the intent of subversion,"
and to prevent "being captured and taken over
by subversives." The society's textbook is secret,
and a Texas jotirnalist kicked up a minor storm
two years ago when he obtained a copy and pub-
lished some of its juicier passages. The society's
purposes are to stamp out "the poison of com-
munism whether labeled as liberalism, socialism,
welfare statism, or communism."
In 1957 FIA produced a movie drama direct
from the Boris Karloff tradition. A politically
apathetic doctor falls asleep and has a night-
mare; doctors are socialized, farmers await pro-
duction orders from Washington, gasoline is
rationed, the government has taken over the
schools. He wakes up, FIA goes to work on the
harried fellow, and he wins his precinct conven-
tion from the Communists. "This will scare
them a little," the producer said. It was a Hous-
ton story if there ever was one.
Among Houstonians who are suspicious of su-
perpatriotic civic work the erratic gyrations of
their vituperative and well-heeled antagonists
is very frustrating. It is more difficidt to carry
out a hard-headed exchange with a Bircher, an
FIA member, or Christian Anti-Communism
Crusader than it is to induce a Soviet youth
leader to debate the bourgeois merits of civil
liberties.
The brooding provincial fears over a world
not clearly understood, the rampant fundamen-
talism, the temperamental wealth, the passionate
organizational work— such are the ingredients
that help explain the Houston phenomenon. A
Houston manufacturer who is deeply concerned
with the current rise of the patrioteers perhaps
is taking too dark a view, but he expresses an
opinion which is shared by many: "All of our
institutions have failed us when this sort of thing
can ha])pen in an American city. Maybe if they
really understood what democracy is, they'd
buy it."
Harper's Magazine, Oclubcr 1961
A BIRD ON THE MESA
A Story by William Eastlake
TH E blue mesa rose through the clouds like
an atoll. From above there was nothing
more to see, nothing, no land or life, not even
water or sand anywhere, nothing, only this mesa
in all the universe— nothing more.
Those on the desert floor below could hear
an airplane in those clouds shrouding the mesa,
the roar going round and round like a distant
high whining toy held on a long twirling string
by a child. Now they wondered when the air-
plane would run out of gasoline and sink to
earth.
"It's been about an hour now."
"Yes. He must have been short of gas when
he began to circle. I bet he can see the top of
the mesa; why doesn't he land there?"
"Because he'd never get down from the mesa."
"That's true. Not without us."
The two very young men on horses— about
fourteen, both of them— could have been sitting
here on horses a hundred years before. That's
the way they were dressed, in blue hard pants,
rough shirts; and this land of northern New
Mexico looked still raw and unshocked too, still
virgin and bright, with gray-green sage and mesas
that rose like undiscovered islands in the clouds.
"He must have all the gasoline in the world."
"He'll come down."
"We've got to be patient."
"It really doesn't make any difference to me.
I've got all the time in the world."
"The cattle can wait."
"Boy, can they wait!"
One of the young men who thought the cattle
could wait for the airplane to do what the air-
plane would soon have to do was a Navajo Indian
called Rabbit Stockings and the other, with the
lean, sharply cut, and burning face was the son
of the man who owned the cattle and, of course,
the horses they both rode, Sant Bowman. The
Indian called Rabbit Stockings did not have
the typical appearance, he did not have even
the aquiline nose that most people associate with
Navajos. Their friend, the son of Afraid Of His
Own Horses, had one and so did Chee Bill
Toledo, but not Rabbit Stockings.
"You're an atypical Indian."
"What's that mean?"
"You're not right."
"Oh, I'm okay."
58
A BIRD ON THE MESA
"Your nose isn't right lor an Indian."
"AVhat else is wrong? Is my name wrong too
for an Indian?"
"No, your name is fine, Rabbit Stockings."
They both watched up trom atop their
painted-in-quick-brighi-splashes and nervous cow
jjonies lo the thick, dark, swirhng-in-gray, slow-
moving clouds above, where the hornet buzzing
of the plane whirred unremitting and mad.
"\Vhat would an airplane be doing out here in
nowhere?"
"Oh, this is somewhere. Rabbit Stockings. The
most important country can be nowhere now.
If I didn't want to be caught or seen at what I
was up to I would certainly go to nowhere to
do it."
"Like the heifer we're following who's going
to calve. She's going nowhere to do it."
"Yes, or that plane up there above the mesa."
"I wonder what they're up to that they came
here to nowhere."
"Well, we're close to the Mexican border, they
could be trying to smuggle something across."
"Like what?"
"People."
"You mean Mexicans? They can cross the river
at night."
"They've got a high fence on this side now.
This way they are flying them over that fence."
"To this mesa? It's a long way over."
"Yes, it is, Rabbit Stockings."
"You know, Santo . . ." Rabbit Stockings let
the rein fall on the fabulous horse. "You know
—how do you know there are people up there?"
"Well, it's not a bird above the mesa."
"That's true," Rabbit Stockings said.
YE S , there were people above the mesa,
but right now there seemed only one, the
man at the controls of the old, gaudily painted
DCS. The soft light from the fantastic and
myriad jxinel of instruments lit only the bony
jaw outlines, throwing the face and brow in hard
relief. It was the face of a murderer. There
seemed no one else in the ship.
"You can come out now," the pilot said, al-
most to himself, and then again, "I said you
could come out. Venga!"
"Okay, okay, okay," a man said, getting off the
floor, and then nine others rose. The Mexican
up first leaned over the pilot and said, "We
there?"
"No," the pilot said. "The weather's been bad
all the way. We're going lo have to land down
there." He pointed. "It looks like a flattop wal-
lowing in the ocean, doesn't it?"
"A what? "
"An aircraft carrier."
"You were supposed to land us near Albuquer-
que," the Mexican said, annoyed. He was the
only one of the ten Mexicans who spoke English
and he did all the negotiations with the Gringo
who had agreed to fly them into the States of
the United States for three himdred dollars
apiece.
"Are we in the States of the United States?"
a wide peasant-faced Mexican asked in Spanish.
"No," the tall, thin-faced spokesman who
leaned over the pilot said. "We're over an air-
craft carrier."
"Actually a mesa," the pilot said.
"Una mesa," the spokesman explained to the
others.
"Can we get down off it?"
"I never heard of one you couldn't," the pilot
said, adjusting a large red mixture knob. The
interpreter translated this and all the Mexicans
seemed satisfied except the wide-faced peasant
who thought about it a while and then touched
himself and said, "Yo, si."
"What's that?"
"He says he has," the interpreter told the
pilot.
"Well, we're going to land here anyway," the
pilot said, and he touched back the throttle and
he thought: I can land there all right. It's long
enough to land. I don't know about taking off
again with this load. I don't think so. The thing
to do is land and conserve gasoline and when
the weather clears I will take off again without
the Mexicans. I'm very sorry but I have fulfilled
my contract. I told them I would land them
someplace near Albuquerque. I'll be sorry if
they can't get down off the mesa. If they can't
get down off the mesa then no one will ever find
out I brought them in. After a reasonable time,
when this bunch is dead, I could bring in an-
other bunch. It could work forever. I guess
half the people in Mexico would like to come
to the United States. The top of that mesa is
the United States. Well, anyway, you could
get away with a few more loads. This is quite a
discovery, a new island entirely surrounded by
clouds.
William Eastlake of Cuba, New Mexico, is
the author of a novel about the Southwest, "Go
in Beauty," and of short stories about Navajos,
rodeos, and sports-car fanatics. Mr. Eastlake grew
up in the East and studied in Paris after the war.
This story is part of a novel in progress called
"Something Dig Is Happening to Me."
A STORY BY WILLIAM EASTLAKE
59
The pilot felt like Magellan or Balboa, but
lighted by the yellow deep shadows of the instru-
ments he looked more like a pirate, a well-
dressed, successful, and even bow-tied Captain
Kidd. But no one walked the plank, just that
mesa, he thought. The pilot kicked the plane
into a long glide toward the high strip; the steep
sides of the mesa were raked by long combers of
clouds breaking in on the scrub oak and pifion
and then sweeping back into the turbulent big
sky. The port engine sputtered. The j^ilot listened
and then the pilot heard, really heard, the engine
sing perfectly again and he began to let her
down. The Mexicans got down on the floor and
held onto each other. She hit, then hit again and
again, and then hit hard, awful, once more, be-
fore she held the ground and rolled to a perilous
halt on one leg.
SA N T leaned back and touched the crupper
of the horse. "Whatever it was, it lit."
"The bird's on the mesa," the Indian said.
"And they can't get down."
"Maybe they'll take off again."
"If it could fly it woidd not have landed."
Rabbit Stockings tried to think of something
wrong with this proposition but he couldn't so
he confounded Sant. "Do you know what, Santo?
We've never been up on that mesa."
"You sure?"
"Sure I'm svne. But maybe my forefathers . . ."
"Do you know what forefathers means?"
"Indians?"
"No, it means you had four fathers. Now,
which one of them was on the mesa?"
"Does it make any difference?"
"I don't suppose it does. Did you hear that?
It sounded as though the engine, the bird, started
again and then quit."
"I like another idea now," said Rabbit Stock-
ings.
"What's that?"
"That they're smuggling dope in that airplane,
or running arms."
"What's 'running arms'?"
"It's an expression."
"I like our first idea best."
"Running people?"
"Yes. Running people is better than running
arms. Running legs would be more apt."
There was a faint mechanical coughing on the
mesa and then silence. "The idea of running
people is ridiculous when you think about it."
The Indian set his horse straight and felt secure
in his judgment.
Sant swung around backwards on his saddle
and looked over the long country, then up at the
dark ceiling where the bird had lit. "Ridiculous
when you think about it, yes," Sant said. "But
so is Rabbit Stockings."
"What?"
"Don't think, Rabbit Stockings," Sant said.
TH E man on the mesa, the pilot, was think-
ing into the overcast. The Mexican illegal
entries tumbled out when the plane came to an
awkward stop. The front right wheel was off the
ground, the left leg of the plane was in a hole.
The Mexicans were under the shadow of the
wing and waiting for the pilot to come out and
tell them where to walk to get to Albuquerque.
"First we better get this plane out of the hole,
then I'll show you how to w:>^k ^n Albuquerque,"
the pilot called from the cockpit.
The interpreter got the Mexicans lifting and
pidling on the plane and soon they had the
purple-with-blue-wings and red-tailed bird that
had brought them so far sitting alertly on a yel-
low apron of sandstone surrounded by low
junipers.
The pilot turned on the radio to try to get a
weather report while the Mexicans began to
scout the mesa for a way down and out to Al-
buquerque, excepting the Mexican with the thin
mustache, the interpreter. He stayed put be-
neath the wing. The pilot could not call in for
weather information because he had, of course,
filed no flight plan. He had left a small field
with his live cargo outside Guaymas, Mexico, five
hours ago and he had hoped to land at the foot
of the Sandias between Bernalillo and Albuquer-
que and get rid of the illegal Mexicans, then fly
back to Guaymas for more if all went well. The
radio gave him nothing but loud squawking
so he turned it off and watched the sky boiling
around him to figure when he could take off. It
was too bad he would not be able to take the
Mexicans but he had gotten them to their States
of the United States and that was all he was
hired to do. There was a hole in the weather
now toward the east so he started up the engines
and let her idle to be able to get off quickly if
there was an opening. It would be best to get off
while the Mexicans were looking for a way down.
There was no way down.
"Shut her off!"
"What? " the pilot called down to the Mexican
interpreter.
"Shut off the engines. You're not going any-
place without me."
The pilot killed the motors and the propellers
finally coughed to a jerky standstill.
f)0
A BIRD ON THE MESA
"You're not going to leave me here to die. I
could sec from up there that there wasn't any way
down off this mesa."
"Let's not be melodramatic."
"What?"
"Let's make a deal."
"All right." The interpreter seemed relieved.
This was the kind of language he was used to in-
terpreting. He had made a deal to be Hown along
for half fare if he would do the interpreting. But
he did not want to die for half price on this
mesa. "What's the deal?"
"Keep the others in ignorance and I'll fly you
off with me."
"What you want me to keep them inside of,
did you say? Speak more clear."
"Keep them occupied when they get back."
"Ocupado. Keep them busy when they get
back. It's a deal."
"It's a deal."
"Remember, the deal is we go off together."
"That's the deal," and the pilot wondered
how he was going to get rid of this Mexican who
seemed more than willing to interpret his com-
rades out of their lives. The bare sandstone
stretched about twelve hundred feet and he
doubted very much whether the ship could make
it off the mesa with both of them— it would cer-
tainly be critical. Why take chances? There was
not only the risk of not getting off, there was
the risk of another living witness if you got him
off. Why risk double jeopardy?— I think it's
called. Wait. I think there was a real break in
the clouds. I think I saw some blue.
"The muchachos are coming back," the in-
terpreter called up. "Can we take off fast now?"
"Not quite now," the pilot said down quietly.
"You'll have to placate them."
"Are you sure you're speaking English?"
"Con them."
"Okay." The Mexicans came up and circled the
plane with folded arms, their legs wide apart.
They stared at the plane with small dark eyes,
with somber and certain knowledge. They all
wore loose-fitting, once-white clothes, but not the
enormous wide hats you see in the cartoons and
the movies. They didn't have any hats at all,
and their hair was very black, cut short, and
stood up like coarse dark wire in continuous
amazement, and now imminent attack, like the
hackles of a bear.
"What did you find?" The pilot asked down
calmly from his perch above the blue wings.
"Es una isla."
"It's an island, ' the interpreter repeated.
"Yes," the pilot said surely. "Hut it's in the
LInitcd States and it's near Albuquerque. What
more . . . ?"
"Qu'e inds?"
One of the Mexicans reached out a great arm
and broke off a thick branch from a juniper tree
and tapped it on the ground, "^ste."
The translator did not have to translate the
woicl "This" for the pilot. The pilot under-
stood the weapon and he thought, well, I didn't
Avant to produce my Smith and Wesson, a thirty-
eight is very small and there are ten of them,
but liere goes because it is the only language
that any of us seem to understand, and he
reached under the seat and felt first with his
fingers to feel if the clip was home and then he
brought the blue gun over the wheel and pointed
it down over the big blue wing straight at the
faces of the marooned Mexicans. "Mira!" he
said, using one perfect Spanish word and shaking
the automatic. "Mira!" Then he said more
quietly to the interpreter, "Ask them, ask them in
Mexican, how they^ want to go." There was
a great silence. The clouds, the ocean of solid
clouds around the mesa began to shift and, if not
yet to break up, then to allow the first white light
to beat down on the quiet tableau around the big
blue bird on the high island mesa. Now the
pilot fired one single echoless shot in the high
sky over the heads of the Mexicans to impress
himself with his strength and the weakness of
those beneath his wings.
IT H I N K Ave have been up on this mesa,"
Sant said.
"When?"
"When we chased the polled bull."
"No."
"When we lost the bronc."
"No."
"When we saw into Old Mexico."
"Not then either."
"When was it then?"
"W^e Avere never on this mesa, Santo."
"Then this will be the first time."
"No, someone else just made it."
"The first time for us then."
"If there is a way up," said Rabbit Stockings.
They stared at each other from their glaring
splash horses. The horses wore identical yellow
latigo hackamores on twin blazed white faces;
they had crazed ceramic eyes, and now both
pawed the red earth in furious attitudes of Greek
bronze and cow-horse impatience.
"We should ought to find that heifer first."
"One heifer in three will need help having her
first calL"
A STORY BY WILLIAM EASTLAKE
61
"So we should ought to find that heifer first,
but . . ."
"Take this heifer though, I bet it's the two
in three that don't need help. It's like you said,
I think, about my four fathers."
"No, it's nothing to do with that. Rabbit
Stockings. It's that you're right about it being
the t^vo in three. Why didn't I think of that?"
"You were distracted by the bird on the mesa."
"Yes. How are we going to get it down?"
"How are we going to get up to get it down?"
Rabbit Stockings looked around wisely and then
up at the heavens. "She's beginning to break up."
"Yes, the bird will escape. Let's see if we can
find a trail up."
They couldn't. They walked, then trotted,
cantered, finally ran their horses around the tall
mesa, examining carefully the steep crenelated
sides that rose like a Roman temj^le, but forever
up into the sky, the mesa punching through,
hiding and hidden and itself concealing— what
was it? That noise, the big toy whir of a new
bird on the mesa.
"I thought I saw . . ."
"What?"
"I thought I saw a way up."
"Where, Rabbit Stockings?"
"There. That cave."
"It's dark."
"And it goes in, not up," said Rabbit Stock-
ings.
"And it's dark, very dark. You're right, it goes
in, not up."
"I guess that's it. " Rabbit Stockings placed
his hands on his hips and looked around solemnly,
"If we can't get up we better locate that cow."
"That heifer before it becomes a cow."
"If we don't, it may never live to be one."
"I said it much better," Sant said. "Don't al-
ways try to improve on what I say."
"After all, I'm only an Indian."
"It's okay to be an Indian, Rabbit Stockings,
it's okay, but remember the war's over. Don't
still try to count coup."
"What's that?"
"Take scalps."
"Keep me filled in on all the Indian lore,
Santo."
"I'll fill you in with a rock in your head,"
Sant said. "Now, what are we going to do?"
"Chase the heifer."
"All right, we'll chase the heifer, but I
hate . . ."
"Me too."
"It's only a plane that got lost. Soon it will take
off and go home."
"Me too."
"No, no, Rabbit Stockings, see if you can pick
up a track of the heifer. That's what Indians are
supposed to be good at, but in my experience
they tend to confuse things."
"The bird will escape, Santo."
"That's too bad."
"You had them smuggling dope, arms, people,
legs, everything."
"It was a weak moment."
"No, no, no," Rabbit Stockings said and he
swung his horse in repeated half circles to pick
up the track. "No, that's good, Santo. It shows
imagination. Why, in a little while, if you keep
your nose to the— grindstone, is it?— why, soon
you'll know as much about crime lore as Indian
lore, if you rub two criminals together . . ."
Sant hurled his horse into Rabbit Stockings'
horse and they bumped and swayed, pitching and
tossing across the sage; then a shot rang out.
They pulled up their horses and stared around,
then up at the mesa.
"If we can't get up, there is nothing we can
do," Sant said.
"Look," Rabbit Stockings remarked, pointing.
"There's the heifer."
It was the track of the heifer and they followed
it. It took a circuitous, wandering, faltering
route, stopping and searching for something the
way a heifer will, to find a perfect spot for her
first calf. The animal is afraid, confused, wor-
ried, but proud and secretive too and wanting a
high, dry sanctuary.
"Look, it's making for the mesa."
"The cave in the mesa."
"It might go up, after all."
"It's very dark in there."
"You shouldn't be afraid of that, Santo. Fol-
low me. Follow the Indian."
They tethered each horse to its left stirrup with
its own rein. The horse thinks it's tied. These
did. Sant followed Rabbit Stockings and Rabbit
Stockings followed the tracks until the light got
dim, but the cave was narrow now and slanting
upward so that the animal could not be avoided.
"We're going up, Santo. Just follow the
Indian."
"Did you hear that?"
"Another shot. Don't be afraid, Santo. Follow
the Indian."
I'd rather beat him in the head, Sant thought,
but he followed the Indian, followed the faint
dry noise, smelling old dust and cheap hair oil
you bought at the trading post, smelling of secret
places and Rabbit Stockings.
"Can you see anything?"
62 A BIRD ON THE MESA
"Not yet, Santo, but we're going up fast."
"If you can't see anything . . ."
"Don't worry, Santo, follow the Indian."
ABOVE on the mesa, leaning out of the
great airplane, the pilot with the long
piratical face repeated down to his illegal cargo
of Mexicans, but particularly to the interpreter,
"Ask them how they want to go." While the
interpreter translated, the pilot waved the blue
gun for attention.
The pilot waving the small blue gun, who was
very shortly to be killed, had now lived almost
exactly thirty-four years. Three weeks short. His
name was Peter Wingo and his friends, when he
had friends, called him Wingy. Peter Wingo had
been born and lived his early life in New Haven,
Connecticut, until he was turned down by the
Air Corps because of chronic conjunctivitis,
whatever that means. Peter Wingo found out
what it meant, but he didn't tell anyone else
what it meant. Peter Wingo learned to fly but
couldn't get a commercial license in the United
States so went to Old Mexico, where he could not
get a legitimate job either and was now hauling
illegal immigrants. But he never thought he
would have to use this gun. There seemed no
other way out.
"Do they understand? Tell them to get out of
the way. I am going to turn the ship around."
"Yes, but don't forget me," the translator called
up. The pilot, Peter Wingo, started the engines
and the great bird made a terrible roar as she be-
gan to pivot in a circle. "I won't forget you,"
Peter Wingo called down to the translator from
the still open cockpit. Now he slammed the win-
dow and began to taxi the huge, awkward, slow-
moving bird toward the other end of the mesa for
take-off. The translator screamed something at
the other Mexicans and they all ran after the
slow, waddling DCS and one after another threw
themselves on the tail of the plane, flat, and
held on so they were all lying and holding onto
the tail as the plane trundled slowly down to
the take-off point.
They are like flies on my tail, Peter Wingo
thought. How could they be so stupid? I've not
met people so stupid since those doctors who
turned me down for the Air Corps for poor
vision. My vision is not so poor that I cannot
see them trying to get off this mesa on my tail,
and my eyes will not be so bad that I will not
see them brush off like flies when I get up some
speed.
The pilot, Peter Wingo, now had the DCS all
the way down at the far edge of the mesa where
he had so perfectly hit while landing. The sky
was clearing nicely now and in a few hours he
would be back in Guaymas. Peter Wingo applied
full brakes and gunned the engines. He could
see the Mexicans on the tail begin to flutter
and stream like old rags, their eyes and tongues
popping out when the giant, raging wind from
the backwash of the roaring eighteen-cylinder
engines hit them. But there's more to come, Peter
Wingo thought. Wait till I get this thing up to
two hundred miles an hour. There will be no
more Mexican flies on the tail. As a matter
of fact, they will be off before I get fifteen feet.
As a matter of fact, there they go now.
The Mexicans could take no more punishment
and they were fleeing the plane. Now they were
all off. A few of them picked up sticks and rocks
and hit the side of the tinny bird, making a hard,
tinny noise, but even they now had fled from
the great wind as Peter Wingo made the engines
roar still more. Peter Wingo tried the ailerons
and the rudder ^nd checked out all the instru-
ments. He could see the instruments fine and
everything was okay. He was heading into the
wind. He released the brakes and the great bird
leaped forward for a perfect take-off, except that
the heifer now moved into the middle of the run-
way. The heifer moved into the middle of the
runway. The heifer moved into the middle of
the runway; everyone said that a thousand times
afterwards. Peter Wingo would never live to say it
to anyone. Now he was saying everything is per-
fect, I'm going to get off, I'm going to get off.
But he wasn't. He could see to a point of piiion
and he knew when he passed this point as he
thundered down the strip he could no longer
abort the take-off, the plane then was committed
to fly, and if something went wrong and she could
not become airborne, then neither could she be
stopped and the great DCS with Peter Wingo,
who could not quite see the heifer, would go
skidding off the edge of the mesa and smash on
the rocks nine hundred feet below.
Now he gave the twin engines full throttle and
the plane leaped down, down the runway, speed-
ing past the rock and cactus like a hurtling hori-
zontal rocket. Now it reached the point of no
return, the point of piiion, and at this exact
second Peter Wingo saw the heifer where it had
emerged from a motte of scrub oak, where it
stood and gazed around at the high, big blue
world. Peter Wingo killed the engines and
touched the brakes and the hurtling bird lost
all its grace and purpose and began to careen
drunkenly at a wild speed as though it were being
torn apart.
A STORY BY WILLIAM EASTLAKE
63
"Oh!" Peter Wingo saw the edge of the world
coming up. "Oh, the damn cow. Oh God, the
damn cow. How did a cow get up in the sky?
Oh, the damn cow."
The plane bucked now on one wing, then be-
gan to skid at a ridiculous cruel angle and make
a terrible cracking noise as it fled to the wrong
side of the mesa and then flared out over the edge
and dropped, wingless, flightless, like a house in
a hurricane, to the awful rocks below.
"The cow. I never saw. I never saw. I never
saw that cow in the sky," were Peter Wingo's
last words on the mesa and on earth. Peter
Wingo repeated them over the broken wheel
as the plane fell; he mumbled with stubborn,
pathetic repetition as though he had seen a
ghost. And yes, was Peter Wingo's final thought,
no one will believe, even with perfect eyesight,
that there are cattle in the air after storms on the
island mesas of northern New Mexico.
SANT and Rabbit Stockings peered out of
the scrub oak, after the cow, just as the plane
went over the edge.
"We missed it."
"No, there it is. The heifer."
"I mean the bird. It just flew."
"No, fell."
They both silently agreed about this, then
looked around the high island mesa in wonder.
"Look, Santo, your heifer is going to become
a cow."
And it was too, and all the Mexicans appeared
from nowhere with advice. This
was something they understood
and knew a great deal about,
something that was not shock-
ing, mechanical, different and
indifferent, but was the same
in Mexico as it was, as it ob-
viously is, in the States of the
United States.
As the calf flew out now
from the heifer, suddenly and
quickly, like a dolphin, the
flat-faced Mexican dropped his
weapon stick and reached in
quickly with his hand and
broke the caul and the calf
careened its head and breathed
air, was alive for the first time
on earth.
"Es un buen torito."
"What?"
"He said it's a beautiful little
bull," the translator said.
"Yes," Sant said. "And Rabbit Stockings here
is an Indian. He doesn't look too Indian, but
he's an Indian, and you gentlemen, I presume,
are all Mexicans," Sant said portentously, "trying
the hard way over the border fence. Well, no
matter. We came up here looking for an airplane,
a big bird we heard . . ."
"That rhymes."
"Rabbit Stockings is conscious of poetry," Sant
continued to the Mexicans. "He . . . Never mind.
Follow me down. We— after all the noise, the
shooting, we expected something terrible and we
found life on the mesa. Life as we know it on
earth. How am I doing. Rabbit Stockings?"
"Terrible. You should have quit while you
were ahead."
"Rabbit Stockings doesn't understand," Sant
called back to the others as they emerged from
the tunnel.
"I'm only an Indian."
They marched past the wreckage of the blue
plane before they got back to their horses. Sant
laid his hand on the withers of the Appaloosa
horse and looked up ai the huge, lonely mesa
that was all visible now.
"God never," Sant said, "nature never, I mean
people were never meant to fly. If we were, I
guess we would have been born with wings."
The Indian didn't seem to be appreciating
this. Then Sant quickly mounted the high horse
and said proudly, "Certainly people shouldn't
fly without passports, not on Monday."
The interpreter translated this and the Mexi-
cans scratched their black stiff
heads and shrugged their shoul-
ders and watched the boy on
the Appaloosa horse. "Quien
sabe?"
Now the procession led
by two great horses wound
through the bright purple
butte section of Indian Coun-
try followed by the heifer, now
a cow.
The lead Mexican, right be-
hind the horses, bore the calf.
He carried it as if the new
life were a thing of great por-
tent, a redeeming and saving
angel that, by some mysterious
mission, had arrived in the sky
at a zero hour to return them
safely to this grand earth and
these beautiful, odd inhabit-
ants of these States of the
United States.
Harper's Magazine, October 1961
I
1
JOHN L. CHAPMAN
The Uncanny
World of
Plasma Ph
ysics
In its "fourth state" matter exists in wild
turbulence of molecules. . . . If scientists can
learn how to rule this world, they may
discover new ways to propel space vehicles,
"limitless" energy, and the secret of the stars.
LIFE exists in less than a needlepoint on the
immense scale of temperatures known to
science. For all practical purposes, we live in a
temperature range between 0 and about 120 de-
grees Fahrenheit— a span which lies only a few
hundred degrees from absolute zero yet millions
of degrees from the extremely high temperatures
believed to occur in the hottest stars. Because we
dwell in comfort in our narrow zone of life, we
have made few forays into the unknown regions
beyond, particularly in the realm of heat. In the
kitchen, our baking ovens reach about 500 de-
grees and we cook on gas flames of about 3,000
degrees. We power jet aircraft on engine temper-
atures of about 1,700 degrees, burn automobile
gasoline at about 3,400 degrees, and fire rockets
at upwards of 5,000 degrees. Until recent years,
the highest temperatures man was able to create
for an appreciable length of time were on the
order of 7,000 degrees F.
The atom and hydrogen bombs, capable of
producing hundreds of millions of degrees for
an instant, have led to radical changes in our
approach to heat. Scientists now know how to
achieve sustained temperatures up to 40,000 de-
grees F and how to duplicate fleeting tempera-
lures near those at the star-like cores of the
bombs. Actually, high temperatures per se nave
not been the objective; rather, they are a by-
product of investigations into a fascinating new
(but in some respects very old) world of physics—
the world of the plasma.
The plasma of physics bears no kinship to the
more familiar plasma of medicine. When a
physicist speaks of plasma, he is referring to the
agitated collection of atomic particles created
when gases are heated to high temperatures.
What interests the physicist is the fact that such
gases are no longer gases in the strict sense of the
word. Nor are they liquids or solids. They are
what is now called "the fourth state of matter."
Plasma has become the object of animated and
esoteric discussion in scientific and technological
journals. Pages are filled with the terminology
of several sciences, temperature readings that
stagger the imagination, a twenty-letter word—
magnetohydrodynamics (which, while it involves
an important area of plasma physics, deserves
unhurried assimilation)— and a host of intriguing
drawings suggestive of stovepipes cut to odd
lengths, doughnuts, pretzels, and telephone
doodling of the wandering spiral variety.
Plasma physics has its complexity and its con-
fusion, as do most scientific endeavors in the ex-
ploratory stage, but it is built upon a few fairly
elementary scientific truths, and in its manifold
activity lies a sense of purpose unmatched since
the Manhattan Project of World War II. For
plasma's practitioners, in their probing of the
other-worldly environment of very great heat,
are knocking on the door of controlled thermo-
nuclear fusion, civilization's bid for virtually un-
limited power. Along the way they seem certain
to pick up new methods of space propulsion and
new tricks in chemistry, electronics, and similar
arts. Most important of all, they may unravel
some of the mystery of what goes on at the heart
of the universe.
Generally speaking, the threshold to the
plasma world is crossed in the neighborhood of
7,000 to 10,000 degrees F. A gas consists of bil-
lions upon billions of invisible, constantly-mov-
ing particles called molecules, the molecules in
turn being made up of various atoms in com-
bination. As the gas is heated, these molecules
begin moving much more rapidly, and in fact
get to elbowing one another around like five
o'clock commuters. The higher the temperature,
the more vigorous the contact. Above 5,000 de-
grees, the pressures created in this unseen, sub-
microscopic fury can be put to powerful use
inside rocket engines.
If the gas is completely enclosed in some sort
65
of container, and the temperature increased still
more, the smooth and gradual transition to a
plasma begins. MoleciUes, thrown into increas-
ingly violent mutual contact, literally start tear-
ing one another apart. The strong force of at-
traction which binds each molecule is overcome
by the high-speed collisions. The molecules be-
gin breaking down into atoms.
But the "destruction" is not over. The atoms,
each consisting of one or more electrons (very
light, negatively-charged particles) orbiting a
tiny nucleus just as planets orbit the sun, con-
tinue the melee until the electrons, which must
absorb the brunt of the hard knocks, arc jarred
from their atomic "moorings."
As electrons are knocked free, a subtle change
takes place. An atom in its natural state is elec-
trically neutral, meaning it always has just as
many negative electrons in its orbiting "shell"
as it has positive protons in its nucleus. When
electrical neutrality is destroyed, two separate
and distinct types of particles result— the mobile,
lightweight, negative electrons and the main
body of the atom, which consists of the nucleus
plus any as-yet-unreleased electrons. The impor-
tant thing about this process is that, once one or
more electrons depart, the positive protons domi-
nate the electrical character of the atom.
These positively-charged atoms are called ions.
Together, the ions, the free electrons, and any
still-neutral atoms constitute a plasma.
As the temperature is increased, particle col-
lisions likewise increase and more and more
atoms are "ionized." At about 20,000 degrees,
depending on the nature of the gas, a significant
number of atoms are ionized. In this state, with
many of its originally neutral atoms converted to
electrically charged particles, a plasma assumes
its most useful characteristic: it becomes a fairly
good conductor of electricity (and an even better
conductor at higher temperatures).
The plasma's ability to conduct an electric
current is only half the story. Whenever elec-
tricity enters the picture, so does magnetism.
Electricity and magnetism are the Siamese twins
of science. Their kinship was first proved more
than 130 years ago by Faraday and other
pioneers. A coil of wire spinning through a
magnetic field produces an electric current. Con-
versely, the flow of an electric current produces
John L, Chapman, the author of "Atlas: The
Story of a Missile," is a former Minneapolis news-
paperman who turned to writing and editing in the
aerospace industry. He is now with the Northrop
Corporation in California.
Collision of atomic particle (left) and atom
(exaggerated) knocks an electron (E) from orbit
around nucleus, thus "ionizing" the atom.
a magnetic field around and at right angles to
the current's path. Both effects are fundamental
to electric motors and generators. The coexist-
ence of electric and magnetic fields produces
electromagnetic radiation— the basis of radio,
television, and radar.
The interaction of electricity and magnetism
in tiie plasma state is highly complex and not
fully understcjod. It has given rise to the tongue-
twisting word, magnetohydrodynamics, which,
thankfully, has been reduced to "MHD." MHD
is the study of how fluids capable of conducting
electricity behave in the presence of magnetic
fields. It is important to plasma physics because
magnetic forces can be used to shape, confine,
and accelerate very hot particles. Electromagnet-
ism provides the curtain which, inside a plasma
"furnace," keeps the hot gas from touching, and
melting, furnace walls.
WALLS THAT V^^ON't MELT
TH E witches' brew we call a plasma was not
invented in America, nor in Russia, nor in
any other country. It is not even a product of
the present generation. Plasma is as old as the
universe. The sun and other stars are primarily
plasma. Great streams of plasma are known to
erupt from the sun, occasionally extending hun-
dreds of thousands of miles into space. They
appear to follow invisible, self-created magnetic
lines of force as they curve back to the sun's
surface or disintegrate in space.
Some charged particles shot from the sun (in
solar flares) escape to the earth where they are
trapped by our own magnetic field and become
instrumental in familiar plasmas such Ss the
aurora borealis and the Van Allen radiation belt.
The earth's ionosphere is a plasma. So is a bolt
of lightning. . ^ .
Man has made several low-energy plasmas, in-
cluding neon lamps, fluorescent lamps, and arc
lamps used for street lighting, plus moderate-
energy plasmas such as electric arcs (which date
from the early nineteenth century), jet and rocket
exhaust, and the hot sheath generated around
G6
THE WORLD OF PLASMA PHYSICS
the nose and leading edges of bodies traveling
through the atmosphere at hypersonic speeds.
The only high-energy plasmas man has made
outside laboratories are in the explosions of
atomic and hydrogen bombs.
With so much evidence of plasma in our midst,
it may seem odd that science did not take serious
note of it sooner. Astronomers naturally have
been interested in plasmas for some time, in con-
nection with their studies of star matter. The
stimulus for large-scale scientific effort, however,
is usually a promise of significant material bene-
fit, and none was foreseen in the plasma domain
until about 1944, when the late Dr. Enrico Fermi,
Dr. Edward Teller, and other members of the
A-bomb team at Los Alamos began speculating
—even before the first fission bomb test— on
methods of sustaining fusion reactions.
Nuclear fusion was not conceived at that time.
Astronomers suspected that fusion reactions (the
joining of light elements to form heavier ele-
ments) were the "generators" which powered the
stars, and physicists had actually achieved small-
scale fusion (by bringing nuclear particles to-
gether in high-speed accelerators) while seeking
the secret of fission.
But the creation of sustained fusion (or ther-
monuclear) reactions on earth was something
else. It was recognized that extremely high
temperatures of long duration would be needed.
While this was a big problem, it was not con-
sidered insurmountable. The real difficulty was
finding a means of containing intense heat of
even short duration. Walls, no matter what they
were made of, would melt long before fusion
temperatures were reached.
Oddly enough, a means of creating the heat
and confining it was inherent in theoretical
papers published in the United States as early as
1934. These papers predicted that a stream of
fast-moving charged particles would— through
the interrelationship of electricity and magnet-
ism—produce an encircling magnetic field at
right angles to the stream's path, a field which
in turn would exert an inward, "pinching" effect
on the flowing particles. Constriction of the
particles in this "magnetic bottle" would increase
tlieir kinetic energy and hence their temperature.
In the late 1940s and early 1950s, at about the
same time U. S. scientists were succeeding in de-
vek)pnieni of a fusion (hydrogen) bomb, a lew
researrhers independently arrived at the "pinch"
apf)ro;icli in (onfining and squeezing hot, ionized
gases. Ff>r some, the insj)iration came from
siudics of stars and interstellar gases, and par-
ticularly from photos oi g;is "explosions" on the
sun, which did not follow the pattern of similar
explosions on earth. In 1951, American efforts
toward controlled thermonuclear reactions (as
opposed to uncontrolled reactions in the bomb)
were organized under the Atomic Energy Com-
mission's Project Sherwood, where they were
cloaked in secrecy until 1958.
FUEL FROM THE OCEAN
IN fusion an enormous surplus of energy is
released, as the H-bomb has proved. If this
reaction can be controlled, as atomic reactors
have controlled the power of fission, our energy
problems will be solved for millions of years.
With coal and oil reserves dwindling, and fission-
able uranium in fairly short supply, fusion
energy becomes especially significant. Moreover,
a promising fuel for controlled fusion, deute-
rium, is plentiful in the earth's oceans.
It is estimated that the oceans contain some 50
trillion tons of deulerium, or about one-eighth
of a gram per gallon. This one-eighth of a gram,
however, could be extracted for about four cents
and has a fusion energy content equal to about
300 gallons of gasoline.
Tantalized by the prospect of an almost un-
limited energy source, physicists are justifiably
anxious to build hotter and hotter plasma fires.
But there are many obstacles. Fusion occurs only
when two bare atomic nuclei can be made to
collide. It will be remembered that atoms in a
very hot gas are stripped of their electrons, i.e.,
ionized. A nucleus in this state carries a positive
electrical charge. Two such nuclei, bearing
identical charges, are strongly opposed to the
idea of marriage. Uniting them is something
like getting two ping-pong balls together in a
hurricane. A physicist has estimated that a
nucleus near fusion temperatures often travels
many thousands of miles— within its infinitely
small environs— in order to avoid its neighbors.
If, however, the random-motion particles of a
plasma can be confined long enough, and if
enough energy can be imparted to them, the
nuclei will overcome their repulsive forces and
fuse. It is a gradual process, beginning with a
few scattered fusions and, as more energy is fed
to the plasma, building up to what is known as
"ignition temperature"— the point at which the
energy created in the many billions of fusions is
sufficient to sustain the process.
The energy needed to make this possible is of
a high ordei. In terms of temperature, which is
merely a measure of heat energy, the range of
fusion ignition is on the topside of 100 million
BY JOHN L. CHAPMAN
67
degrees F, which compares with about 35 million
degrees at the center of the sun.
How do we get these very high temperatures
in laboratories? One way is to pass an electric
current through a gas, although this is limited to
a high of about one million degrees. Higher
temperatures can be produced through "magnetic
pumping" (an alternate compressing and ex-
panding of the plasma, performed by a separate
magnetic field), compression by successive stages,
and injection of particles already at high energy
(to increase density).
A CAGE FOR WARM JELLO
IN Project Sherwood, three basic methods of
containing a plasma are used. One is the
"pinch" effect, mentioned earlier, wherein the
plasma spins itself a magnetic cocoon, inside a
metal chamber, the cocoon fulfilling a dual pur-
pose of constricting the jjlasma particles and pro-
tecting the chamber walls from heat.
In the so-called "stellarator" concept, the con-
fining magnetic field is produced by a current
passing through coils spiraling around the out-
side of "endless tubes" shaped as doughnuts or
figure eights. The plasma thus closes on itself,
so the particles, as one scientist puts it, "won't
know which way is out."
The third method uses converging magnetic
fields at the ends of a straight tube to "reflect"
particles back into the center of the tube; hence
the name, "magnetic mirror."
In all cases, there are three principal objec-
tives: high temperature, high density, and long
confinement time. The necessary temperature
(100 million degrees and up) has been achieved;
the necessary density (about 10 million billion
particles to a cubic centimeter) is possible; the
necessary confinement time (a minimum of 10
seconds, in order to allow reaction buildup) is
not as yet possible. So far, the maximum plasma
lifetime has been about 1/1 000th of a second.
Several problems stand in the way of longer
confinement. For instance, when hot gases be-
come very, very hot, the resulting plasmas don't
always behave the way they are expected to.
They develop "kinks," "burbles," and other
strange quirks which physicists classify under the
general heading of "instabilities." Turbulence
can occur in a plasma in much the same way as
water can become turbulent if flowing through
a pipe too rapidly. Plasmas sometimes "sway"
within their magnetic confines; Dr. Edward
Teller compares this to holding lukewarm jello
in a cage made of parallel rubber bands.
The general result of these instabilities is to
destroy the plasma and its magnetic field before
fusion reactions can develop. Particles may jump
from one magnetic line to another, shoot through
the "magnetic bottle" and strike chamber walls,
where they cool and lose their energy. Or the
entire j)lasma may undergo convulsions which
destroy the bottle in less than a wink.
Stability is not the only worry. Electrons,
dashing about in their new-found freedom, have
a nasty habit of gaining more energy from the
plasma's current than they lose in colHding with
neighboring particles, with the result that they
also shoot the bottle and knock contaminating
materials off chamber walls. (Purity reqiure-
ments are so high that the metal in a pinhead,
according to one scientist's estimate, could ruin
"several railroad tank cars full of plasma.")
Some plasma energy also radiates away in
particle collisions. Obviously, if a plasma is to
reach ignition temperatures, it must produce
energy faster than it loses it.
Physicists are generally undismayed by these
barriers. They point to the remarkable progress
that has been made and give themselves a good
chance of success in the work still ahead. One
researcher puts it this way: "If we are armed
with a complete, or nearly complete, catalogue
of the various ways in which plasmas can be-
come iMistable and know theoretically the physi-
cal conditions for these instabilities to occur,
then we can begin to make real progress toward
eliminating them."
Presently, one of the more promising fusion
experiments is centered around a 40-foot pipe,
known as Toy Top III, at the University of
California. The pipe consists of three sections in
which plasma is progressively squeezed by mag-
netic coils. Two-section tests have come close to
ignition temperatures. But even if three-section
tests reach the goal, the very thorny problem
of confinement time will still be around.
Plasma studies include some not-quite-so-warm
COIL ofiiikYihfQ-cumehn
MAGrh/ETlC
^/A/es OF
FORce
Pi. ASM /»
One type of plasma heating, involving use of
heavier magnetic fields at ends of tube to form
"magnetic mirror."
68
THE WORLD OF PLASMA PHYSICS
applications outside the AEC's Project Sherwood.
• An important area of interest is plasma
propulsion for space vehicles. Magnetic fields
can be used to accelerate charged particles as
well as confine them. If one accelerates particles
to such a velocity that a force of reaction de-
velops in the opposite direction, one has the
rudiments of a rocket. Such "engines" have al-
ready been tested experimentally, and with
promising results. (Plasmas play a part in a
related propulsive scheme— the arc jet, in which
an electric arc heats a propellant gas to plasma
temperatures preparatory to ejection through a
nozzle.)
Plasma rockets are low in thrust (because the
particles they throw out are very light) but will
be ideally suited to long-duration, gravity-free
operations in space, where rapid acceleration is
not needed.
• Plasmas are used to create "artificial atmos-
pheres" for study of hypersonic flight and missile
re-entry problems. Shooting a very hot wind-
stream against a model aircraft or nose cone— in
a laboratory— gives an excellent approximation
of a body traveling through the upper atmos-
phere at very high speeds.
• Chemists expect that plasmas may help pro-
duce synthetic materials that cannot be produced
at lower temperatures. "Plasma guns" operating
between 10,000 and 30,000 degrees are already
used for applying refractory coatings to base
metals, and for welding, shaping, and cutting.
Such tools are reportedly capable of slicing
through a two-inch-thick plate of stainless steel
at a rate of 15 inches per minute.
• Scientists and engineers alike are enthusiastic
about other plasma possibilities in basic physics,
electronics, and communications. About 100
plasma research projects are in progress under
U. S. government sponsorship: some 75 under
the military, and 25 under AEC, the National
Aeronautics and Space Administration, National
Science Foundation, and other agencies. Govern-
ment expenditures for plasma work totaled more
than S25 million in 1960. Industry and univer-
sities have an additional 35 or more projects at
an investment of more than $1.3 million.
AN IMMENSE NEW PLATEAU
THE inevitable question arises as to what
the Soviet Union is doing in plasma
physics. Congressional committees are especially
curious about this when questioning U. S. scien-
tists. The breadth of Russian plasma research is
uncertain, but the U. S. S. R. is definitely active
in fusion development, and has shown consider-
able interest in a "magnetic mirror" device called
OGRA. Dr. Paul McDaniel of AEC has stated
that most American and European ideas on
fusion power have also been conceived by Soviet
scientists. He indicated that the Russians, in
1958, at least, did not seem to be working on any
new ideas which had not been known and con-
sidered in the U. S.
Besides that of the U. S. and Russia, organized
fusion work is going on in England, France, and
West Germany; lesser activity is evident in
Australia, Denmark, Italy, Japan, The Nether-
lands, and Sweden. Certainly, a great deal of
prestige awaits the nation which achieves the
breakthrough. While there is no overt indica-
tion that we are in a race, it is not difficult to
imagine the black headlines and ensuing Con-
gressional storm should the first successful fusion
power generation be announced by Pravda.
The full potential of plasma physics probably
cannot be realized today. Practical fusion power,
which scientists say may be as near as five years
or as distant as twenty, may well prove a more
significant achievement than the harnessing of
the atom.
It is noteworthy that many parallels can be
drawn between our tiny terrestrial plasmas and
the gigantic plasmas of astronomy, and that our
interest in such matters coincides with a grow-
ing need for knowledge of our spatial environs.
Fusion power generation, when attained, may
help us learn more about these cosmic plasmas,
which include our solar plasma, the sun. The
sun, in effect, is a mammoth thermonuclear re-
actor, although it needs no magnetic bottle (its
gravitational pull balances the outward pres-
sure of its plasma) and has a substantial confine-
ment time (100,000,000,000,000,000,000 years).
Magnetism, however, is very much present
around the sun and stars, just as it is present
around the earth. Magnetic fields also inhabit
the vast regions between stars. Astrophysicists
think these fields are influential in the accelera-
tion of cosmic rays, the formation of new stars,
and the fashioning of spiral galaxies, whose
great, curving arms apparently follow magnetic
lines.
Scientists have long sought to understand the
fundamental roles of electricity and magnetism
because they feel both are intimately tied to the
forces that made and are still shaping the uni-
verse. Plasmas, besides offering many practical
benefits, may be opening the way to an immense
new plateau of scientific knowledge, may even
be a key to man's mastery of his environmeni.
Harj)cr's Magazine, October 1961
MARTIN WILLIAMS
^^The New Thing" in Jazz
The first radical development in twenty
years is now making Charlie Parker
and Dizzy Gillespie look almost as dated as
Haydn. (With a selective list of the
key records by the new musical pioneers.)
AS T H I N G S go in jazz, twenty years is a
long time. And for almost twenty years jazz
has been dominated by the musical language in-
troduced by the saxophonist C^harlic ("Bird")
Parker and the trumpet player Di/zy Gillespie.
This music was rather unfortunately called "be
bop" when it first found a following and it tame
—more fortunately— to be known as "modern
jazz." Not too long ago the music of Gillespie
and Parker often produced shock and outrage-
even to some avid followers of jazz— but today
popularized versions of it are commonplace. Al-
most every Sunday the featured comedian on the
Ed Sullivan show runs off the stage to a little
melody that is really a simplified version of an
old Gillespie piece. And one TV comedy series
uses a saxophone theme that is clearly a water-
ing down of Charlie Parker's style.
Now a different kind of jazz is emerging and
once again its striking and radical departures
from the jazz that went before it are producing
outraged protest in some parts of the jazz world.
For lack of a better name, some call this music
"the new thing"; others jokingly label it "space
music"; with some accuracy it has been called
"atonal jazz." Whatever it is called, practically
everyone agrees that one of the leading figures
involved is the saxophonist Ornette Coleman.
Two years ago the composer and pianist John
Lewis put down a reaction to Coleman's music
which still describes some of the excitement of
what is happening today:
"There are," Lewis wrote, "two young people
I met in California— an alto player named Or-
nette Coleman and a trumpet player named Don
Cherry. I've never heard anything like them be-
fore. Ornette is the driving force of the two. . . .
They play together like Lve never heard any-
body play together. It's not like any ensemble
that I have ever heard, and I can't figure out
what it's all about yet. Ornette is, in a sense, an
extension of Charlie Parker and the first I've
heard. This is the real need ... to extend the
ideas of Bird until they are not playing an imita-
tion but actually something new. I think that
they may have come up with something, not per-
fect yet, and still in the early stages, but never-
theless very fresh and interesting."
To luiderstand how the new music came
about, we should forget earlier theories of jazz
history which saw the music of the 'twenties
and 'thirties geographically— as "New Orleans
Style," "Chicago Style," "New York Style,"
"Kansas City Style," etc. It should be clear by
now that from the late 'twenties through the
early 'forties jazz was largely dominated by Louis
Armstrong's style. With great personal power
and brilliance, Armstrong made major innova-
tions in the musical language that jazzmen had
to work with, and his ideas of rhythm, melody,
and harmony led to years of fruitful work by jazz
soloists and composers alike.
By the late 'thirties, one composer was provid-
ing, with his orchestra, a sort of brilliant and
personal synthesis of all of those years of Arm-
strong's dominance. That was Duke Ellington.
Ellington's best pieces— ^o Ko, Harlem Air Shaft,
Concerto for Cootie (for trumpeter Cootie Wil-
liams), Sepia Panorama— curry jazz beyond the
improvising soloist or the series of striking
episodes that a string of good solos can provide.
He and his players offered orchestrations in
which composer, group, and individual impro-
viser all contribute to a whole with the total
effect surpassing the sum of its parts.
Today it seems more useful to see the history
of jazz in a kind of Hegelian scheme: we can
trace a pendulum swing from major innovation
(Armstrong in the 'twenties, Gillespie and Parker
in the 'forties) to synthesis and form (Ellington).
70
THE NEW THING" IN JAZZ
Certainly such a view involves simplifications
and a neglect of such important contributors and
precursors as, say, Coleman Hawkins and Bix
Beiderbecke in the 'twenties, Roy Eldridge and
Lester Young in the 'thirties. But such a scheme
does bring some kind of musical and aesthetic
order into the relative chaos of jazz history and it
certainly deals with its major styles and achieve-
ments more meaningfully than another of those
ta^vdry trips up the Mississippi to Chicago, fol-
lowed by a jaunt to New York in a Stutz Bearcat.
One thing immediately emerges: changes in
jazz are not the result of caprice, and dealing
with this music as an art is no delusion. Jazz
does indeed behave like an art and its history
responds to such aesthetic categories. Folk and
popular musics do not behave this way. To a
Flamencan guitarist, the highest achievement is
to play just as much like his great-grandfather
as he can. In most American popular music, the
constant changes are surface devices that lead no-
where musically. In jazz, major changes lead to
years of musical exploration and development.
The next question is obvious: Have the inno-
vations of Parker and Gillespie found any kind
of synthesis? They have, but no dominant figure
has appeared. We find order and form in the
work of a small core of composers, players, and
groups.
One such group is the Modern Jazz Quartet.
Its chief composer is pianist John Lewis, its chief
soloist is vibraphonist Milt Jackson, but the
group works together masterfully. It has been
said that the MJQ engages in the kind of cock-
tail-lounge stunt work unworthy of a jazz group-
that it borrows classical devices wholesale and
without assimilating them into the jazz idiom.
And it is true that an evening's concert by the
Quartet may have its arid moments in which
Milt Jackson's wonderful talent is wasted on
some mechanically academic effects. It is also
true that the Quartet's early fugue Vendome
sounded suspiciously like "in the style of Bach"
quackery. John Lewis studied composition at
the Manhattan School of Music and the effects of
this training are sometimes less than happy.
However, the Quartet's later fugues-Concord
Martin Williams, who contributes regularly to
"Metronome," "Down Beat" and "American Record
Guide" was formerly co-editor of "The Jazz Re-
view" His anthology. "The Art of Jazz" was pub-
lished by Oxford and has been reissued in
paperback by Evergreen; and his radio show on
jazz is heard on the Heritage Network.
and Versailles— are real improvisational jazz
fugues and remind us more of Jelly Roll Morton
than the conservatory practice-room. .And the
best of the Quartet's pieces are things like John
Lewis' Django and The Golden Striker— rel^i-
tively simple themes plus recurring motifs and
structures which give continuity, group textures,
and over-all form to the improvising.
Django, for example, is a funeral piece for the
French gypsy guitarist-turned-jazzman Django
Reinhardt. It has a touching lyric theme, a re-
curring traditional blues motif (as old as jazz and
echoing the exaltation of traditional New Or-
leans funeral music), plus an harmotiic frame-
work on which the Quartet's gifted players
improvise melodies. The Modern Jazz Quartet has
been improvising on Django for over seven years
and its members still find it a vehicle for fresh
individual and contrapuntal invention. Playing
it has gradually changed the whole character of
the piece, yet its compositional basis still endures.
THE DOUR PIXIE
ONE of the most remarkable recent
masters of form in jazz is iconoclastic
pianist-composer Thelonious Monk. In 1941, he
was already making important contributions to
the basic musical language of modern jazz. By
the late 'forties he had become a major jazz com-
poser. By the late 'fifties he was still soundly
testing new ideas, but his work was also a kind
of terse and passionate summary of all that had
gone before him, echoing everyone from James P.
Johnson through the younger Monk.
The most immediately accessible Monk is the
one who takes a popular ditty, reharmonizes it to
make a real piano composition out of it, and
builds it into sets of strikingly original variations
—often hurnorously and ingeniously rephrasing
the theme itself throughout. The square can
follow him, the aficionado is (as he is apt to put
it) gassed. Just You, Just Me is a fine example
of such a Monk performance. The individual
variations are delightful (even the drummer Art
Blakey recognizably employs the theme in his
chorus) and the over-all design is praiseworthy.
In such playing Monk has profited by fifty
years of jazz, and gone back to an earlier style.
Instead of inventing new melodies out of a frame-
work of chords— as have most jazz musicians since
the mid-'thirties— he prefers to do variations di-
rectly on a theme, reminiscent of the early styles
of James P. Johnson and Jelly Roll Morton. But
rather than merely embellish or decorate a
melody, Monk is apt to reduce it, twist it.
BY MARTIN WILLIAMS
71
redesign it, fragment it to an outline of a few
suggestive notes. The best comment I've ever
heard on Monk came from a comparative square
who said, "Most of these people seem to have
good ideas, but Monk seems to finish things, to
get them all said. I feel satisfied and sort of full
when one of his things is over."
Examples of Monk, the major composer, are
pieces like Criss Cross, Off Minor, Four in One,
Misterioso, 'Round Midnight, Straight No
Chaser. These are not "tunes" but real composi-
tions-for-instruments— the best clue being that,
as with Beethoven, we do not go away wanting
to whistle them ourselves, but wanting to hear
them played again. In 1958 fame finally began
to reach this quiet yet powerful man— this "dour
pixie," as he has been called. But Monk had
already been a major jazzman for fifteen years.
At about the same time that Monk began to
win the popularity polls, another sign of syn-
thesis in modern jazz appeared. It came not
from a composer or group but from tenor saxo-
phonist Sonny Rollins, an improvising horn man
who was directly influenced by Monk's ideas.
Rollins' Blue 7 is surely one of the most remark-
able jazz improvisations ever recorded. It is
eleven minutes long and it unfolds from be-
ginning to end with a direction and order that a
good composer might have taken days to achieve
and an immediacy that he could never achieve.
The piano choruses by Tommy Flanagan are
contrasts to the rest but drummer Max Roach
uses the theme-proper ingeniously and Rollins
uses it brilliantly. Roach commented, "Monk
would say, 'Why don't we use the theme? Why
do we throM' it away and just run the chords?'
We had that in mind when we made Blue 7."
Rollins teases, elaborates, fills in, reduces, praises,
and parodies that Blue 7 theme throughout, and
hearing his variations is surely one of the great
Charlie Parker
musical pleasures in jazz since Charlie Parker's
death.
As I have said, some aspects of Monk's work
outline new developments. One of these is his
very free and original use of jazz rhythms. An-
other is the fact that Monk will let the melody
he is building determine its own direction as
long as it is aesthetically logical. In this he often
overrides a pre-set harmonic framework. Actually,
Monk has pushed jazz to the brink of atonality.
And in the past three years, several authentic
players have appeared who improvise atonally
almost as a matter of course.
HYBRID OR FINISHED WORK?
BESIDES achieving its own synthesis, jazz
has formed an interesting alliance in the
past few years. This is the so-called "third
stream," an effort to combine written classical
forms and improvised jazz in single works. Of
course, this is quite a different matter from the
occasional and fairly superficial use of written
"blue notes," quasi-jazz rhythms, or jazzy effects
by Milhaud, Ravel, Stravinsky, et al. The "third
stream" piece involves a rather concerto grosso-
like structure combining both classical and jazz
musicians on the same platform: the classical
players serve as the orchestra and the jazzmen
perform as the concerti. There have been some
rather dismal failures in the idiom so far, and
some out-and-out trash. (Some of those failures
and some of that trash, by the way, have been
commissioned for and performed by Leonard
Bernstein and the New York Philharmonic.)
A decided success is Gunther Schuller's piece.
Conversations, written for a 1959 Town Hall con-
cert by both the Beaux Arts String Quartet and
the Modern Jazz Quartet. The reasons for its
success are readily apparent if we compare the
piece to Schuller's earlier work. Transformation.
In Transformation , the classical orchestra play-
ers begin in their own idiom and gradually
evolve into a jazz style, whereupon the jazzmen
take over and improvise. Little by little, things
are reversed and the jazzmen turn into classicists,
whereupon the real classicists take over and re-
establish their manner. Aside from the merely
technical difficulty of getting classical musicians
to swing, this alliance seems to be sentimental,
with each music politely deferential to the other.
Conversations works in precisely the opposite
way. When the string quartet has built to a
high pitch of tension, the jazzmen enter abruptly
with strongly contrasting, relaxed, and fluent im-
provisation. And when the jazzmen have begun
72 "THE NEW THING' IN J A
to establish their own kind ol tension, the
strings re-enter behind, playing in contrapuntal
argument. Throughout the piece, Schuller has
let each music go its own way, maintain its own
standards of emotion, melody, and rhythm. It is
as if he had said that each music has its way of
looking at things, and the basis of Conversations
is the tension between the two idioms. Even the
resolution is a kind of agreement to disagree.
Perhaps most important, Schuller has used jazz
in his piece for what it is with no apologies
and has trusted his jazzmen to carry their part.
Thereby he has produced, not an experiment or
a hybrid, but a finished work.
Dizzy Gillespie
THE ROAD TO NEW YORK
DIZZY Gillespie has said that he, Monk,
and the others, used to work out difficult
chord progressions deliberately, to confuse the
amateurs and keep them out of the experimental
jam sessions that led to be bop and modern
jazz. A young musician said the other day, "We
keep changing the tempo and the key and leav-
ing out the chords altogether when we play so
those damned be hoppers won't try to sit in
with us." He didn't mean Gillespie or anyone like
him, of course. But his statement is a reflection
of the facts that very few of the youngest players
in jazz are finding any real musical challenge in
the language that Gillespie and Charlie Parker
provided, and that many of the younger men
who play that style play it in a derivative, me-
ciianical, and conventional manner. Even the
most searching and sincere jilayers often seem
so boxed in by tlie pre-set structures that they
may appear to be running around like rats caught
in an harmonic maze.
There have been lumblings ol a change for
at least five years now. liassist Charlie Mingus
ZZ
saw the coming deadlock, reached for atonality,
and often shouted to his players to "stop copy-
ing Bird." Another evidence was the fact that
men were looking to Monk for guidance. A
third came about when Miles Davis herded
his men— saxophonists John Coltrane and Julian
("Cannonball") Adderley and pianist Bill Evans
—into a studio to make a record called Kind of
Blue. Instead of improvising on the usual pre-
set chord jiatterns, Davis required his men to
make up their melodies from scales and modes
which he assigned them on the spot, and let the
harmonies fall where they may.
Meanwhile other musicians were experiment-
ing with freer jazz forms. One was a young
pianist named Paul Bley, another a pianist-
composer named Cecil Taylor. Then in 1959
Ornette Coleman came to New York. Charlie
Mingus employed a reed man named Eric Dol-
phy. The composer George Russell formed a
sextet. Even Jimmy Giuffre, decidedly from an-
other generation, bas been attracted to this new
ja// and uses Bley in his trio.
Today, musicians working on "the new thing"
are turning up almost daily in New York, and
the players who are already known rattle off the
names of other and yet unknown players with
ease. Some of those who have been heard are
good, some are not, some are merely faking—
for free and atonal music may invite faking at
this stage. At least one man is potentially a
popularizer of the style. It seems undeniable
that the things they are working on will dom-
inate jazz for its next period.
For a sympathetic listener, some of these men
can create a whole new sensibility. One is the
pianist Cecil Taylor, who was academically
trained at both the New York College of Music
and the New England Conservatory. His play-
ing clearly shows a knowledge of the classical
composers of this century: Bartok, Stravinsky,
Schonberg, etc. However, he is also aware of
the jazz tradition and jtist as clearly displays
familiarity with Ellington and Monk. But Tay-
lor is a starkly emotional performer who does
not like to talk about his work. He will say that
he hopes his playing speaks for itself and, if
pressed further, that he plays to give people
pleasure.
Ornette Coleman came to atonal jazz by a
very different route from Taylor's, and he deals
with it very dillcrently. A slight, soft-spoken, self-
tauglit young man from Foit Worth, Coleman
will talk about his music at length to anyone
wlio is really interested, describing what he is
doing modestly, candidly, in his own highly
BY MARTIN WILLIAMS
73
intuitive and sometimes cryptic way. Coleman
heard the jazz of the 'thirties played around him
when he was growing up and he absorbed the
work of Parker and Gillespie from records. He
studied harmony from the stray books that were
available. Soon he began writing his own pieces
down in a personal style of notation that still
gives other players some trouble. By the late
'forties, he was playing a style that some are
still attacking as out of tune and in total ignor-
ance of harmony.
One probably significant fact is that Cole-
man used his sister's piano book for study. It was
in C, whereas Coleman's alto saxophone was, of
course, in E flat. This happy accident may have
set him on his path, but the point is that he
heard tonal relationships as correct when only
an avant-garde classicist would have agreed with
him. He later worked out his ideas on tenor sax-
ophone too. He hit on the same general direction
that Schonberg did, but he did it in terms of
jazz and with no influence from classicism— and
no academic snobbery about "improving jazz."
His idea as he puts it is, "once the technical
basis is understood, to be as free as possible. Not
to play the framework, but to play the music
itself."
Coleman's first jobs were with the small
"rhythm and blues" groups that flourished
throughout the South— and still do— the more
honorable jjrogenitors of the rock 'n' roll style.
Hostility to him ran high in most of the en-
sembles—he was thrown out of one for "trying
to make a be bopper" out of the other saxo-
phonist in the group, and it got so that another
leader was paying him not to play.
Stranded in Los Angeles for the second time,
still kept from playing at jam sessions by mu-
sicians who accused him of musical ignorance, he
was nevertheless presented as a potential com-
poser to a record producer named Lester Koenig,
by the bassist Red Mitchell. But Coleman pro-
tested that he had no scores and he couldn't
play his music on the piano. Instead he began
performing. (^/ cappella on his saxophone and then
Koenig wanted Coleman as well as his pieces.
Gradually things began to happen to him—
help from John Lewis, a contract with Atlantic
Records in New York— and by the fall of 1959 he
had opened at the Five Spot in New York's lower
East Side with his own quartet. Coleman was
soon packing the house, attracting reporters
(some of them intrigued by the largely extrinsic
fact that he plays an inexpensive white plastic
alto sax), and pulling in the intelligentsia— in-
cluding a delighted Leonard Bernstein, an en-
thralled Marc Blitzstein, an approving Virgil
Thomson, and an unsettled Kenneth Tynan
("They've gone too far!").
Ornette Coleman
COLEMAN AND EMOTION
TH E lay listener should actually have far
less initial trouble with Ornette Cole-
man's music than a musician whose ear searches
automatically for the harmonic chord changes
on which he expects jazz variations to be built.
(Most musicians however agree that his writing
can be superb. As one of them put it recently,
"Those themes sound so fresh and beautiful.
Then they start to blow and it's— Cape Canav-
eral!") As for Coleman, he says, "If I am going
to play on chords, I might as well write out my
solo," and, "I think a theme should set up a
musical direction and a pitch for the solo."
Coleman's variations may, in fact, be made on
any of several elements of any given theme: on
the pitch or suggested scales: the emotion or
mood; the rhythm of the theme rather than
chords. The soloist's job becomes a free invention
based on the general musical, rhythmic, or emo-
tional areas that a theme suggests; the listener
who says "he sounds like someone laughing,
talking, and crying" is having the soundest sort
of response. There is nothing really inaccessible
about the emotional variations on Coleman re-
cordings like The Blessing, the ironic Tears In-
side, Lorraine (a memorial to pianist Lorraine
Geller), Lonely Woman, or Peace, and most of
the titles speak for themselves. And the rhythmic
variations on Ramhlin' (called by one man "a
jazz version of hillbilly music") bring sponta-
neous responses from all sorts of audiences.
I
74
THE NEW THING" IN JAZZ
The role of the rhythm section in Coleman's
group is almost reversed from previous jazz
styles. Instead of the soloist following the
rhythmic patterns set by the drummer and bass
player, these musicians follow the soloist. This
change is not as revolutionary as it might appear.
It is often said that the appeal of older jazz is
rhythmic and that the Dixieland fan is re-
sponding to rhythm. But the rhythmic progress
made in the history of jazz is enormous. Think
of it: In 1930 a bassist, a guitarist, a pianist's
left hand, a drummer's right foot and both his
hands, would all be thumping away at time-
keeping. Today only the string bass and perhaps
the drummer's right hand on a cymbal will be
playing the basic 1-2-3-4, 1-2-3-4. Meanwhile, the
melodies themselves have evolved with far more
rhythmic excitement and complexity.
Coleman wants even more rhythmic freedom
and wants the drummer to play a kind of per-
cussive part within the music rather than merely
"accompany" it. He told Nat Hentoff, "Rhythm
patterns should be more or less like natural
breathing patterns. I would like the rhythm
section to be as free as I am trying to get, but
very few players, rhythm or horns, can do this
yet. Thelonious Monk can. He sometimes plays
one note, and because he plays it in exactly the
right pitch, he carries more music in it than
if he filled out the chord. I'd say Monk has the
most complete harmonic ear in jazz. Bird had
the best diatonic ear."
Coleman's innovations are basically simple,
inevitable, and authentic extensions of the jazz
tradition— but they seem so only because his
sublime stubbornness has made them. He has
an eloquent answer to those who accuse him of
inciting aesthetic chaos: "No. When I found out
I could make mistakes, then I knew I was onto
something."
His most far-reaching effort yet, called Free
Jazz, took place in a recording studio. This is
a continuous free improvisation by a "double"
quartet— Coleman and Eric Dolphy, reeds; Cherry
and Freddie Hubbard, trumpets; Charlie Haden
and Scott La Faro, basses; Ed Blackwell and
Billy Higgins, drums. The only patterns fol-
lowed were a series of brief ensemble themes
spaced so as to propel each soloist in turn. The
rest is entirely unpremeditated, sometimes col-
lective, improvising. And when they were fin-
ished the performance had lasted over thirty-eight
minutes, long enough to fill both sides of an
EP. It is a strong experience and the sec-
tion with dual improvising by the two bass
players is especially remarkable.
Louis Armstrong
THE REAL RENEWAL
FO R all his willingness to discuss it, Cole-
man's music is still largely a matter of doing,
of playing, of testing ideas. The composer George
Russell differs from Coleman in that he has
a theory to offer. Russell's career goes back to
the first successes of modern jazz; he wrote for
both the Gillespie band and for Parker. He later
evolved a theory of jazz "pantonality" based
on the Lydian mode and several famous jazzmen
have studied with him. Whether his rationale
proves finally successful for the "new" jazz or
not, it has meanwhile helped him find a renewed
career as leader of an advanced sextet.
Russell's current trumpeter is a young Cali-
fornian named Don Ellis, who often leads his
own trios. They play a thoroughly pleasant and
sometimes more or less "light-music" version
of "the new thing." (I mean that in the sense
that Johann Strauss and Jacques Offenbach
wrote "light music") Ellis' music is frequently
reactionary: he knows as much about Rex Stew-
art's 1930s trumpet style as he does about Dizzy
Gillespie's, and his groups are apt to abandon
"modern" jazz themes and actually play familiar
lines like Honeysuckle Rose or Somebody Loves
Me. The soloist changes tempos and key at will,
the accompanists follow. For several months,
Ellis' group held forth in a Greenwich Village
coffee house where a customer was heard to mut-
ter, "Man you gotta drink a lot of coffee to play
that music!"
Ellis names contemporary classical composers
like Webern and Stockhausen as major influences.
But players like pianist Paul Bley and saxo-
phonist Dolphy have obviously begun as virtuoso
modern jazzmen and pushed things a bit further.
Bley has become a gentle lyricist. Dolphy still is
a nearly ferocious technician, whose style lies
BY MARTIN WILLIAMS
75
somewhere between Ornette Coleman's and that
of an advanced and generally accepted modernist
like John Coltrane. Dolphy readily acknowledges
that Coleman "taught me a direction."
There are many problems still in Ornette
Coleman's music. It is a fascinating and pas-
sionate experience now, and hearing it is like
attending the beginnings of something new, fre-
quently beautiful, and terribly important. But
no one woidd contend that it is a finished music,
only that it is an exhilarating move in an in-
evitable direction for jazz.
The most telling evidence of his importance
is that he has iuirotluced new ideas of rhythm
and his melodies involve new ways of phrasing.
Parker's way of jjhrasing still clings to the im-
provising of Dolphy, Ellis, and several others,
liui like Parker and like Armstrong before him,
Coleman is developing a really new sensibility
from a new rhythmic basis. AMien Charlie Mingus
said of him that he sounded like "a million
toned bongos" he went directly to the point. And
jazz history clearly shows that anyone who tries
to change jazz harmonically without revising
his rhythms antl phrasing, inevitably risks either
a bloodless affectation of meaningless sound pat-
terns or pointless showers of technique.
Ornette Coleman gets the same kind of ex-
treme reactions both within the jazz milieu and
outside that any radical innovator must expect.
Like Monk before him, he is both praised and
called a kind of fake— among all the men men-
tioned in this survey of "the new thing," Cole-
man is the one whose work still remains some-
what "controversial" in the fan and trade press.
And this is natural, for his music takes the
biggest step away from established convention
into a real renewal of jazz.
DISCOGRAPHY
Duke Ellington's Ko Ko, Harlem Air Shalt,
and Concerto for Cootie are on RCA Victor
LPM 1715; Sepia Panorama is on Victor LPM
1364.
Basic Parker-Gillespie is on Savoy 12020, basic
Parker on Roost 2210.
Columbia WL 127. which contained Gunther
Schuller's Transformation, is now out ot print,
but the more successful Conversations is avail-
able on Atlantic 1345. Another recommended
"third stream" piece is Bill Russo's An Image
for saxophonist Lee Konitz and an augmented
string quartet on Verve 8286.
The Miles Davis Kind of Blue session is on
Columbia CL 1355.
I believe the best introduction to George
Russell's sextet is a piece by Paul Bley's wife
Carla called Bent Eagle, a part of Riverside 341.
The same group is on Decca 9220. The newer
Russell group with Don Ellis and Eric Dolphy
is heard on Riverside 375. Ellis has his own
recital on Candid 8004, and it includes the
Imjirovisational Suite which uses a twelve-tone
row.
Ornette Coleman's first LP was Contemporary
3551 and it includes The Blessing; Tears Inside
and Lorraine are on Contemporary 3569.
Lonely Woman and Peace are on Atlantic 1317;
Ramblin' and The Face of the Bass on Atlantic
1327; Free Jazz, for the double quartet, is At-
lantic 1367.
The Modern Jazz Quartet has recorded
Django thrre times. The 1954 version is on
Prestige 7057. Later versions arc on Atlantic
1325 and 2-603-i)oth oi which LPs also have
attempts to rescue the fugue Vendome. Of the
more successful figures. Concord is on Prestige
7005 and Versailles on Adantic 1231. The
Golden Striker is a part of Atlantic 12^8.
Riverside 12-209 is a Thclonious Monk recital
with Just You, Just Me, and his best version of
'Round Midnight is on Riverside 12-235. lilue
Note 1509 includes Criss Cross, Four in One,
and Misterioso; Blue Note 1510 has Off Minor,
and 1511 Straight No Chaser. Monk's most in-
genious use of rhythm and open space is prob-
ably on his extended solo on the Miles Davis
"all star" Bags' Groove session (Prestige 7109).
Those several Monk choruses on "take one" are
based on developing a single, clearly recog-
nizable musical phrase, by the Avay.
Cecil Taylor's best available LPs are Con-
temporary 3562 (Looking Ahead) and the re-
cent Candid 8006, The World of Cecil Taylor,
on which his version of Lazy Afternoon is a par-
ticularly good introduction to his work.
The ne^v Jimmy Giuffre group with Paul
Bley can be heard on Verve 8397.
Dolphy is heard in a nearly shattering recital
with Charlie Mingus on Candid 8005. On his
own LP on Prestige 8252, a piece called Feathers
makes a good introduction to his playing.
Harper's Magazine, October 1961
Corsica Out of Season
WALLACE STEGNER
// you are fed up with autos, crowds,
'"tourist attractions," and rapacious
hotel keepers, this blood-stained island
might look almost Utopian . . . especially if
you can manage to get there in winter.
THERE is a game that goes on between
Italy and its stranieri, especially students
and artists who stay too long to be covered by
normal tourist routines but not long enough to
become residents. Many of them have bought
export cars in England, France, or Germany,
and are driving on foreign plates as visitors to It-
aly. Never mind that some cars have been run-
ning around in a condition of happy stateless-
ness for years; the law says they can stay only six
months, and Italian law enforcement, good-
naturedly intended not to catch too many, just
might catch you. Moreover, the bureaucracy
sticks like a sticky door at technicalities in (he
fine print of footnotes to bylaws. I have heard of
many car owners who tried to have their papers
extended; I never heard of any who succeeded.
But any member of the bureaucracy v/ill tell you
how to evade the technicality he so impartially
enforces, and wiihout (he disromlort of naii(jnal-
i/ing the car and paying a third <)\ its value in
taxes. You (hive to the nearest frooticr, sur-
render your papers, drive across into foreign
territory, make a U-turn, and re-enter Italy,
whereupon they will issue you a new six-month
jiermit.
That is how two families of us happen to be
sitting in a harbor restaurant in Livorno during
a February downpour, waiting to put our cars
on a boat for Corsica. It is not the season for
Corsica, and Corsica is exactly as hard to get to
as it was a hundred years ago— overnight on a
once-a-week boat. But Corsica is France. More-
over it is off the track, and it seems a more
sporting way to get new papers than f)y tamely
driving north to the French border on the
beautiful, crooked, truck-choked, Vespa-haunted,
appalling road to Ventimiglia.
The rain slants hard across the windows. In
the deserted piazza the gutters riffle in a gust as
if under a cone of bird shot. Light gleams off
paving blocks, off the muscled backs of the four
Moors cringing in their chains around the monu-
ment. We wait, and write postcards, and wait;
when it is clear there will be no letup, we run
for it. Behind the revelations of the windshield
wipers we creep through drowned squares, black
alleys, reaches of blighted wharf, until we find
the dogana gate. From the customs shed the
light shines ou( no fai(her than it would shine
from a cave under the sea.
On such a night an olhcial can enhance his
77
stature by six inches. This one finds something
missing among my papers. His eyes gleam, he
barks questions, he shakes his head. I will have
to pay. With his girl helper he discusses ani-
matedly how much I will have to pay— 30 per
cent on every liter of betnina I have bought
with my carta carhurante. But then I find the
missing document. His face sours, his animation
fades, the burdens of his office come down on
him anew. He reads all through the paper as
if he never saw one before. Wearily he shuffles
my documents together and clips them. He
beckons the man behind me, checks him through,
beckons the next one and does the same. When
no one else is waiting he tosses my papers into
a basket and waves me past.
At the customs counter the rest of our party
stand dripping, with all our dripping baggage:
a customs man has insisted that all be brought
in. Now as wc wait, a little man on his way
somewhere else chalks quick X's on everything
and passes on without looking, and we can carry
it all back through the tempest. When I devise
my Utopia I shall look first of all for some means
—mescaline, narcotic mushrooms, pretty girls,
free movies, government gin, something— to make
all small officials radiantly happy in their jobs, so
that they do not have to put down helpless
stranicri in figurative arm-wrestles.
IS THERE A HARDER WAY?
NOW we are out of Italy, and apparently
out of the world. The docks are black, and
there are no signs anywhere.
A hut containing three stevedores pro-
vides us with three conflicting directions on how
to reach the Asiatica. Our headlights probe one
possibility and discover the tormented sea, and
we back up and go on groping. By trial and
error we ultimately find a dock where, behind
sheets of rain, sailors are loading cargo from a
truck into the side of a little ship. It is the
Asiatica, but it does not want us. It does not
want our cars until the other cargo is stowed,
and it cannot show the women to their cabins
because the man who knows which cabins belong
to whom has gone off to the agenzia. We sit
listening to the rain for an hour. Finally the
last truck backs away. There is a sound of
demolition, a howl of anguish, and a sailor leaps
like a leopard to the dock. The truck has backed
over his motor scooter.
But we do not climb out into the rain to
view the damage or listen to the furious
debate going on behind us. We are wet and
cold, we have driven all day to get here, through
traffic incomparably Italian. And we have been
six months in Italy, and the motor scooter has
not our affection. All the trucks in Italy could
back over all the scooters in Italy, and then back
off the highest Ligurian cliff into the sea, and
we would hum a tune, paring our fingernails.
Near midnight we drive one at a time into
the worn rope sling and are hoisted on deck. The
man from the agenzia arrives. We go chattering
to the cabins and crawl into bed. The last word
from the bunk below me is a litotic murmur:
"Do you suppose there's some harder way to get
out of Italy?"
When I awake and put my nose to the port-
hole I am saluted by a clean cold wind. The
sky is clear and full of sunrise, the sea is blue
and heaving, there is a rocky island to port and
a promontory to starboard, and beyond that a
high mountainside hazed with lavender light
and crowned with a snowy horn. I dress and
rush on deck, intending to slant into the sunrise
like a carved figurehead. Five minutes later I
slink back down, as predictable as a groundhog,
and lie flat until all motion ceases.
When I emerge again, pale and with twitching
whiskers, we are tied up at Bastia. The deck is
jammed with Corsicans yelling down to people
on shore. From the dock a man wearing one
glove turns up his sweet imbecilic face and ^\iih
rubber lips sings a toothless version of a "Tosca"
aria. A man in corduroy paces with his imibi ella
hooked in his collar and hanging down his back.
Down the dock a Franciscan brother hardly five
feet tall suddenly tucks up his robe for some
reason and runs like a rabbit, clattering his
brogans, around the customs house. People
shoulder paper suitcases and homemade chests
and stagger down the gangplank. Two bandits
with mustaches sticking six inches beyond their
faces leap together and kiss like lovers. The sun
dazzles off the harbor's chop, the wind is rushing
innocent white clouds across the sky. On the
air there is not the snarl of a single Vespa.
Ah, Corsica! Eccola! We have come all un-
prepared, have read not a single book or travel
Wallace Stegner made his Corsican excursion
while he was Writer in Residence at the American
Academy in Rome. On sabbatical leave from Stan-
ford (where he is Professor of English), Mr. Stegner
completed his new novel, "A Shooting Star,^ re-
cently published by the Viking Press. He is at work
on two other books — one about the Saskatchewan
frontier and one about the Mormon Trail.
78
CORSICA OUT OF SEASON
folder. ^\'e have only come seeking new papers
the sport inp: way. But the minute we are out of
Bastia and are on the road driving around Cap
Corse, ^\•e find that what we have landed on is
incomparable.
One does not visit Corsica for the reasons one
visits most places. Though there are exceptions
such as Rogliano, Calvi, and especially Bon-
ifacio, the towns are not very interesting, and the
capital, Ajaccio, has little but its echoes of the
Bonapartes. The monuments are few, the archi-
tecture distinguished only in a few fortresses.
There are pleasant wines grown on Cap Corse,
and Bonifacio's lobsters are held to be special,
but otherwise there is nothing to make a gour-
met tour of. French plans to "develop" Corsica
with casinos and resorts have barely begun to
come to pass, and in February what little there is
of that kind is closed. Corsican handicrafts and
costumes have little of the color of Sardinia's,
and would lure nobody. Accommodations are
often primitive, and in Ajaccio exorbitant. And
one hardly visits a place for its history when its
history of conquests, injustices, and blood is so
peripheral that it might as well be the history
of Indian tribes extinct before Columbus.
Corsica always was a prey of Carthaginian,
Roman, Genoese, Pisan, Spaniard, Moor, French-
man, even Englishman; but it affected Europe
very little.
WE ARE GUESTS
TH E world went past on the freeway and
left this wronged and bloody island, after
three thousand years of habitation, as sparsely
settled and nearly as primitive as I remember
the Rockies forty years ago. The roads, built
without the cut-and-fill ruthlessness of modern
highways, are unbelievably crooked and some-
times as precarious as goat paths. But listen:
in an entire day of driving we meet five cars;
apparently few Corsicans own them, and there
are no tourists except in summer. Without
Vespas and diesel exhaust, we hear and smell so
freshly it is like having new senses. Everybody
yells and waves; I see a boy collecting our license
number as I used to collect freight-car numbers
in Saskatchewan a millennium ago. Except in
Ajaccio, we meet none of the organized banditry
of the tourist lanes. We aren't tourists, we are
strangers and guests. People want to talk to
us, and we have many conversations, in a mix-
ture of Italian and French, with fishermen,
peasants, women, operators of little cafds. As
for scenery, which is what the well-advised
traveler does come to Corsica for, this island's
rough sixty-by-one-hundred miles contain more
varieties in small space than anywhere I have
seen in the w^orld, and some of the varieties,
particularly the western coastline itself, are
superlative.
The Ligurian coast of Italy, or the Big Sur
coast of California? Corsica is better. It starts
getting better before you are around Cap Corse,
and grows steadily more spectacular down be-
yond the Gulf of Porto and the Calanche de
Plana. Above He Rousse the headlands stand
out in the sea like roughly-hammered gold;
farther south they are sheer, towering spires of
blood-red porphyry. As you look away from the
sun, the sea is dark cobalt; looking into it, it is
crinkled metal foil. The mistral sweeps every-
thing into motion. The sky pours with white
clouds whose shadows darken and scatter over
the running sea, and the maquis, the wild brush
that clothes the mountains to their snowcaps,
stirs and shivers under the blows of wind. We
learn why ancient sailors called this the Scented
Island: it is one vast garden of thyme, lemon
sage, arbutus, rosemary; we pass square miles of
rosemary in blue bloom.
Have you seen the living, profuse mountain
water of the Yosemite high country? Here in
February, although there are not the sheer falls,
it is just as musical with water. There is a road-
side fall or cascade every hundred yards, it seems,
and if you stop for a drink you find the turf
spotted with violets and crocuses, and the banks
heavy with pale-green blossoms of hellebore,
which we hear is used to poison fish. That re-
minds us of the story that it was used to poison
Hamlet's father, poured in at the porches of his
ear. We are content to leave it growing for its
beauty without making even a symbol of it,
much less a potion.
The Trossachs of Scotland, the English moors?
Try Corsica's Desert des Agriates, a furzy upland
with rocky outcrops where you can stop to com-
mune with bands of merino sheep and smell the
wind across aromatic plants and hear sheep bells
in the stillness as brittle as the sound of hydrogen
atoms being born. I have heard no such stillness
since Utah and Nevada.
Do you know the Alps, the real mountains?
You will not ski in Corsica, and at this season
the highest country is still closed by snow, but
Monte Rotondo, Monte Cinto, and the others
show you their snowy horns rearing up in the
central massif at the heads of deep, short, abrupt
valleys. All along the west, Corsica plunges
steeply toward the sea through maquis slopes
BY WALLACE STEGNER
79
and moor country to olives, red roofs, Mediter-
ranean towns, black sand beaches, round Genoese
towers on promontories. In one look you see
from Norway to Sicily, from timberline to orange
groves.
Or have you a nostalgia for the piiion smoke
of New Mexico? Stand on the white rimrock
above Bonifacio and sniff its evening chimneys
and be translated in a bjeath to Taos or San
Ildefonso. Yet if you look up at the fortress
sheer on its clilfs undercut by sounding sea caves,
or across the strait to mountainous Sardinia, or
out to where horned islands lift above the blue
like rhinoceros heads upthrown above wind-
blown grass, then you realize afresh how change-
ful Corsica can be within the several directions
of a single view.
SICK OF AUTOMOBILES?
CORSICA is as hard to get out of as to
get into, we find, for the little boat to
Sardinia can take no car weighing over a thou-
sand kilos (one metric ton); so wc strip the cars,
even removing the spare tires, to get aboard.
But then we look back at the lovely and unex-
pected island surging uj) out of the sea to its
central snow masses, at the channel widening
between us and the secret, fiord-like, once-pirate-
infested, citadel-crowned harbor of Bonifacio,
and above that the red-boled forests of cork
oaks. It seems to have come out of the sea that
very minute, with the water still running from
its white cliffs.
In an hour, at Santa Teresa, we will get new
papers and be fit to live in Italy again. But
meantime the bureaucracy has done us a favor we
appreciate. In five days we have met only three
other tourists, all in the bottleneck of Bonifacio.
In an island with no winter accommodations we
have found beds, though once we had to turn
back twenty miles to do so, and made haven in
an unheated, totally empty hotel with one of
those sporting French hall lights that give you
twenty seconds to make four flights. In a country
with no cuisine we have eaten and drunk well,
especially when we stayed with the country
towns: we remember a robust mountain lunch
at Serra di Scopamene, and a shore dinner at
the fishing village of Centuri, this last ended with
a formaggio di copra that was a gastronomic
experience. My wife, who had a cold, said it
cleared her head like menthol.
If we go again, we shall again go out of season:
we do not like the thought of Fiat 600s boring
around those curves warning the world in their
impatient castrato, or of Calvi's bay full of yachts
over from Monte Carlo and Nice. And when I
create my Utopia, and have settled the happiness
of all petty officials, I shall set aside Corsica as a
sanctuary for people sick of the automobile and
all its ways and works. I shall make it a per-
manent wilderness for people who might like to
experience what the Mediterranean cratlle of
civilization was like before civilization began to
whittle and carve it all up. I shall include myself
in the prohibitions, and, papers or not. leave
my car at the gate as cheerfully as a Muslim
slipping out of his shoes at the door of the
mosque.
Harper's Magazine, October 1961
The Proper Tool will do the Job
NORMAN HALLIDAY
TH E ice in the Mississippi the last couple of
\vinters has had everybody all in a dither.
Actually, it was no ice at all, compared with what
ice was in the old days, but everybody got into a
dither anyway. Quite a few towboats were tied
to the bank at Cairo, Illinois, unable to move
north. This was not surprising, as they were
diesel towboats. The ice wasn't so bad as it might
have been; you could see water between the Hoes.
I remember one really bad winter for river ice,
back in the 'thirties. The Mississippi at Cairo
was jammed, and the Ohio was filled with crush-
ing floes of heavy, mr)ving ice Tifteen feet higli,
that slowly lollcd and turned like great, gray
walruses as liiey floaied by. hi the Mississi|)j)i
the gorge weru lioin the Illinois to the Missouri
bank and was piled as high as twenty-five feet in
places. No water was visible, and down hard by
the river, which has a pleasant gurgle in good
weather, it was dead quiet. The ice had worked
under itself piece by piece until it went all the
way to the bottom, preventing the passage even
of fish. That was over twenty years ago, and it
remains in my mind how odd it was to see the
usually voluble, boiling, and muddy Mississippi
strangely changed into a path of white, jagged
silence.
That year a goodly niunber of towboats (diesel)
almost had to wait at Cairo until the ice moved
out. But a way was available then to beat the
solidly ])acked ice; they did it with a steamboat,
which is, aflcr all, the only possible way.
She was the old S.S. Begonia Belle, which was
ai)()ui the biggest steamboat ever biult, as stern-
whceleis go. It was considered to be a wise move
to lake a sandwich along when making the trip
81
lioni one side of the boat to the other, as from
the starboard (river pronunciation: "stabberd")
to the larboard ("labberd"), nowadays called the
port side, was a long haul. When the stokers
didn't get the signal that the boat was stopped
at a town and so kept firing, she would pop off
steam. This would break windows, burst people's
eardnmis, run off the dogs, and make women
beat their children, besides drying up the cows,
marking unborn children, and causing sows to
farrow early and desert their young.
The pilothotise was glass all around and so big
that it was often rented by small-town high
schools along the river, when the boat was tied
up at the right time of year, for use as a basket-
ball court during tournaments. Also in the pilot-
house was a bcautifid, engraved, brass spittoon.
(An old-iimcr lold me there was "one o' them
there nice, round leetle rubber mats, fer to set it
on.") This spittoon had been the personal
property of Mark Twain, given to him by Mr.
Bixby. It was maintained and polished by a
special crew of five men, one of whom was always
in attendance, and it was removed and kept
under guard during the athletic events for fear
of souvenir hunters.
The famous time that the S.S. Sprngue came
down the river with seventy-eight coal barges in
one tow was a special trip. That coal was needed
to replenish some of the bunkers on one side of
the Begonia Belle, which was tied up at Lower
Hominy, Arkansas, using the steam from her
boilers to heat the public buildings of six coun-
ties during a wood choppers' strike.
Begonia Belle was world-famous. When King
Edward VII came over from England it was his
greatest desire to see the boat, but at the time she
was far up the Missouri, near Great Falls, Mon-
tana, with three hundred barges of baled clover
hay for the last of the buffalo herd, which had
been isolated by a blizzard and was in danger of
starvation.
She was often borrowed by the U. S. Army
Engineer Corps. Once, when the silt had built
up the New Orleans delta so much that the river
there was nearly dammed, the Belle dropped
down to a little above the blockage, stern down-
stream, and Avith seven fast turns of her stern
wheel washed the silt forty miles out into the
Gulf of Mexico. Any more work of such a nature
has been unnecessary since.
But the badly gorged ice I mentioned hap-
pened during a crisis. There was in St. Louis a
critical shortage of hops, sorely needed by a
major food industry there, and eight towboats
(diesel) and their tows carrying the necessary
relief were stranded at Cairo, tied up on the
Ohio side of town. Their crews were near ex-
haustion from fending off the moving ice with
pike poles, while St. Louis cried aloud for hops.
Nobody knew what to do, except a few
maligned men who had always known and
spoken of the superiority of steam power. Finally,
afte^ much acrimonious discussion, the authori-
ties were persuaded of the necessity of sending
for the Begonia Belle.
She moved up the river from Vicksburg, where
she had been to deliver the samples and exhibits
to the annual convention of the International
Association of Chitteiling, Fatback, Corn Pone,
Collard Green, Black-eyed Pea, and Grits Pro-
ducers. Arriving at Cairo, she swung the diesel
towboats and their tows up in her lifeboat davits
and backed down the river to abotit Columbus,
Kentucky, to get a running start in relatively
clear water.
Then with three off-shift men from the
Cuspidor Custodial Force sitting on the safety
valve, she surged ahead and plowed easily
through the packed ice, hurling huge chunks of
it as far west as Diehlstadt, Missouri, and east to
Olive Branch, Illinois. Her momentum would
have carried her to Keokuk, Iowa, but the engine
was backed at about Ste. Genevieve, and she
dropped off her cargo of mercy at the foot of
Market Street, St. Louis. She was highly maneu-
verable.
It's a shame that they don't build that kind
any more, and the Begonia Belle is gone. She
was sent to Russia under Lend-Lease during the
late war to keep the harbor at Archangel cleared
during the winter months, and they refuse to
give her up.
A native of Cairo, Illinois, a combat officer
in World War II, wounded in action, and a gradu-
ate of Northwestern, Norman Halliday is fasci-
nated by rivers, boats, and tall stories.
Harper's Magazine, October 1961
HERBERT KUPFERBERG
THE CULTURE MONOPOLY
AT LINCOLN CENTER
In spite of its breath-taking architectural
promise, some New Yorkers are beginning
to wonder whether it really will help the
artistic and entertainment life of their city.
IN THE days when Lewisohn Stadium,
scene of New York's summer concerts, was
being built, a story was told of three planners
who were consulted on its design and operations.
The first said: "We'll charge two dollars a
ticket and cover the seats with velvet." The
second said: "No, we'll charge one dollar a
ticket and cover the seats with cloth." Where-
upon the third smiled wisely and said: "You're
both wrong. We'll charge a quarter a ticket
and cover the seats with people."
And that is how Lewisohn Stadium was built,
as anyone who has sat upon its hard concrete
tiers (cushions a quarter extra) can attest.
No such homely philosophy prevails at
Lincoln Center for the Performing Arts, the
vast agglomeration of cultural edifices now be-
ginning to rise in midtown Manhattan. Nothing
can so well describe both the scope and the
spirit of Lincoln Center as words taken from
one of its own promotional brochures issued
during its untiring fund-raising campaigns:
Lincoln Center will he unique. On a fourteen-
acre site in the heart of New York it will build seven
theatres, concert halls, and educational buildings to
be used to bring the finest art to the greatest num-
bers. The Center will be unlike any other in the
world today. Nowhere else will there be such an
assemblage o( great institutions. .
The buildings at Lincoln Center and the park and
plaza which will sunourid them will n^ive New Yf)rk
a new landmark that will stand for more than a
hundred years as a proud motiuiiicni \,, Amcrifan
architectural skill. Future generations ol visitors irom
America and abroad will come to Lincoln Center as
they now visit great landmarks in Venice, Athens,
and Rome: just for the joy of being there. Lincoln
Center will make New Yorkers proud. It will make
America proud.
It is doubtfid 'whether the builders of St.
Mark's, the Acropolis, or the Colosseum were
half so sanguine about their enterprises. But
if the prose of Lincoln Center's public state-
ments has too often been that of the real-estate
developer rather than of the servant of the arts,
the project's reason for being is essentially an
artistic one. The point is constantly stressed
that its aim is to "strengthen our performing
arts," "whet the artistic appetite of the nation,"
provide a "bold and timely answer to the 'cul-
tural explosion' taking place in America today,"
"make New York City— indeed make America—
the performing-arts capital of the world."
Originally, the Lincoln Center project re-
ceived its impetus from the need to find new
homes for two of America's major musical
institutions, the Metropolitan Opera and the
New York Philharmonic. The former need was
longer-standing, for the Met's 1883-vintage
house has long been inadequate; but the latter
was more pressing, for when the Center was
started, the Philharmonic's house at Carnegie
Hall was believed to be doomed to demolition.
As it turned out, these fears were as exaggerated
as Maik Twain's prematiue obituary, for with-
out the Philharmonic's directors' lifting a
finger to help, Carnegie Hall was saved by a
few determined citizens bright enough to en-
list the interest of the state and city govern-
ments.
But with buildings for the Metropolitan and
the Philharmonic as its nucleus, with Fordliam
Uni\eisily building a downtown camj)us just
below it, with new apaiinicnt houses on its
83
western fringes strengthening its status as a
slum-clearance project, Lincoln Center was able
to expand and diversify with all the zest of a
supermarket opening up new departments. A
generous gift of $3 million from Mrs. Beaumont
Allen assured the addition of a repertory drama
theatre. The Juilliard School of Music agreed
to come in as the major educational institution
on the scene, even though this involved sub-
stantial changes in its traditional pedagogical
patterns in order to provide a new drama
department and to concentrate on advanced
students of music rather than undergraduates.
The New York Public Library decided to move
its musical departments into the new complex,
despite objections of scholars who were used to
the old locations. And to accommodate ballet
attractions and possibly light summer enter-
tainment, a Ballet-Operetta Theatre was added
to the plans.
Lincoln Center, as an entity, does not intend
to run these various enterprises— or at least it
intends to run them as little as it can. Instead,
it regards each of its constituent members— the
Met, the Philharmonic, the proposed Repertory
Theatre, Juilliard— as master in its own house.
And yet at Lincoln Center, according to an offi-
cial brochure, "The whole is greater than the
sum of its parts," and the constituents will seek
for "common artistic goals." But what, exactly,
will be the artistic policies that control the
operations of Lincoln Center? Who, if anybody,
is really going to run the show? What does the
cultural, artistic, and entertainment life of New
York City stand to gain from Lincoln Center—
or does it stand to gain anything at all? And
where, among the graceful arches, glass facades,
climbing columns, and spacious promenades,
will that well-known but sometimes neglected
patron of the arts, the cash customer, find his
place?
THE MET GETS ITS W^AY
ON AN Y map or model or diagram of
Lincoln Center as it will look when it
is completed, one institution dominates all the
rest. At its front and sides, soaring arches open
out upon the Center in three directions. From
its rear rises a seventeen-story office tower.
Around it are clustered, like satellites, the
Center's other buildings and facilities— the
Dance Theatre and Philharmonic Hall flanking
its approaches, the Drama Theatre and Juilliard
on its left hand, a band shell and a park on its
right.
This key building, this center of the Center,
is of course the Metropolitan Opera. It will be
by far the most imposing, the most elegant,
the most costly ($37,400,000), the most elaborate
(just one of its facilities is a restaurant seating
300 diners). But the Metropolitan's domi-
nance of Lincoln Center extends to other
realms than the physical. For even more signifi-
cant than its height, grandeur, and placement
is the simple practical fact that it contains
the largest auditorium on the premises, a
hall seating an audience of 3,800— the only
auditorium in Lincoln Center that actually rep-
resents an increase over the one it is intended
to replace. And the mere possession of the
most capacious theatre not only in Lincoln
Center but in the entire city (aside from movie
houses) will give the Metropolitan a powerful
voice in determining who besides itself uses that
theatre— and when.
Actually New York today is far less of a big-
theatre town than it was a generation ago. An
old-time (but still very active) impresario, Sol
Hurok, can reel off, like a stockbroker reciting
quotations, the capacities of theatres past:
Hippodrome— 4.700 seats; Manhattan Opera
House— 3,300 seats; Century Opera House— 3,200
seats; Lexington Opera House— 3,100 seats.
"Those," says Hurok with nostalgia, "were the
days of theatres."
Nowadays, when an impresario like Hurok
brings over a major ballet company like the
Royal or the Bolshoi or the Moiseycv. he can
play it profitably only at the Metropolitan Opera
House, which has 3,600 seats and room for 200
standees. That means he is forced to time its
arrival for the early fall or the late spring
months, before or after the Met season. .\nd
since not even an extended run at the Opera
House is always sufficient to meet audience de-
mand, Hurok sometimes plays a few extra shows
at Madison Square Garden just to take care of
the overflow. In effect, no big ballet or opera
comj)an\ from abroad can play in New York
from October 1 to April 15, while the Metro-
politan Opera is in town either performing or
rehearsing.
Lincoln Center's design will perpetuate this
situation rather than remedy it. It will do so.
Herbert Kiipferberg is an editorial writer and
record critic for the Netv York "Herald Tribune."
Among other musical and theatrical events, he has
covered the Salzburg and FAlinburgh Festivals, and
he teaches critical writing at Fordham University in
New York.
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88
LINCOLN CENTER
moreover, at a time when, thanks to increasing
international cultural exchange and to jet trans-
portation, more such visits are going to be in the
air— literally as well as figuratively— than ever
before. Lincoln Center's answer to this problem
is to propose not a change in building plans but
a revolution in New York's concert- and ballet-
going habits.
"We're trying to force the expression 'off-
season' out of the vocabulary," says Reginald
Allen, the Center's executive director of opera-
tions. "We're spending a fortune on air condi-
tioning to assure year-round operations, and we
expect to keep the new Metropolitan Opera
House open and occupied forty-six weeks a year
—forty-two at the minimum."
To which one concert manager replies: "The
season is the season. In July and August people
are gone from the city, and in June who wants
to go to the ballet, even with air conditioning?
Even right after Labor Day is too early. The
off-season is definitely out."
The chance of a major foreign opera company
coming to New York during the most desirable
months of the year will be even dimmer than
those of a ballet troupe. Despite the fact that
most Metropolitan directors are living ex-
emplars of the free-enterprise system, no prospect
displeases the Met more than the prospect of
competition. No resident company has given it
serious trouble since it bought off Oscar Ham-
merstein's Manhattan Opera opposition in 1910
for SI, 200, 000, although the young company
that plays at the comparatively humble City
RUTH KRAUSS
VARIATIONS ON A LORCA FORM
When I live again
put me with my cablecar bells
by a bay
When I live again
among the dark alleys
and a golden gate
When I live again
put me with my antipasto
in a little backyard
^Vhen I live again
under the ailanthus trees
and the falling caterpillars
AVhen I live again
put me, if you will,
in a Satuidav night
When I live again
When 1 live again
put me with my wings
on the rim of the world
^N'hcii I live again
with lU) eyes
full ol glaciers
BY HERBERT KUPFERBERG
89
Center for Music and Drama on West 55th
Street has been a minor irritant at times. Now
at last, visits by La Scala and perhaps other
European companies for short seasons here ap-
pear to be both possible and likely; indeed, such
trips are spoken of quite openly by Metropolitan
officials . . . under certain conditions. One high
executive of the Met puts it this way: "Sure,
we'd like to have other opera companies come
over here to play. We'd like to have a visit from
La Scala, and we'd like them to play at our
house in Lincoln Center. But we want them to
come after our season. And we want them to
come with co-ordination and planning, not only
on timing but on repertoire.
"Let's say we're putting on our new produc-
tion of Turandot. How would it be if La Scala
came over a month before and put on their
Turandot— :\nd with the same singers in the
leading roles? A conflict like that could be
disastrous— that's why we want to proceed on a
co-ordinated basis."
To help avoid such disastrous— or at least
discommoding— conflicts, the Metropolitan is
doing its utmost to assure that when it moves
into Lincoln Center its old house will be demol-
ished—without any loophole to permit its pres-
ervation, in the manner of Carnegie Hall. Last
March 7, a long-term lease was announced
whereby the old Met site will be turned over to
developers who are to begin demolition work
for an office structure immediately after the Met
moves out. Payments to the Met will begin at
$200,000 and increase gradually over the years,
but the purpose is not exclusively economic.
The unexpected preservation of Carnegie Hall
was a shock to the Center's planners, and they
dread even more the prospect of a Save-the-Met
campaign developing in the three years that re-
main to the old house under present schedules.
Nothing better symbolizes the Metropolitan
Opera's unchanging artistic outlook than its
plan to carry over to Lincoln Center— in a cul-
tural landmark "that will stand for more than
a hundred years"— the traditional architectural
pattern, that acme of opulent ill-design, the
nineteenth-century grand-opera house. The plans
of the new Met's interior from the start have
included a row of well-displayed boxes, and
tiers of balconies in the old-fashioned horse-
shoe shape. To be sure, the Met is taking care
to modify its horseshoe so as to permit its side-
seat patrons the novelty of an unobstructed
view of the stage. But at Lincoln Center, no less
than on 39th Street, the orientation of the
Metropolitan Opera will continue to be more
toward the nineteenth century than the twenty-
first. Its conduct of its labor negotiations last
summer, when the fate of the 1961-62 season was
at stake, did nothing to dispel doubts either as to
its modernity of viewpoint or its sense of re-
sponsibility to the nation's musical public.
Nor are its prices expected to undergo any
reversal in their steadily upward course since
the war. The Met's top last season was ten dollars
and, although not yet publicly announced, an
increase is anticipated with the beginning of the
1962-68 season. Whatever price scale is finally
set for the new Metropolitan at Lincoln Center,
it's obvious that opera-going there will be a
more costly undertaking than ever.
The Metropolitan's ticket scale will be doubly
important because it is bound to have a magnetic
effect upon admission fees in other theatres
at the Center. And while the Met's audience,
however it may grumble, can and undoubtedly
will pay increased prices, the faithful customers
of the New York City Center very possibly can't
and won't.
GIVE UP A DOLLAR A YEARf
TH E question of the City Center's rela-
tionship to Lincoln Center is one of the
most intriguing aspects of the entire project,
and one which is still far from being resolved.
The New York City Center was founded less
than twenty years ago in the administration of
Mayor Fiorello H. La Guardia as a kind of ex-
periment in municipally sponsored culture. To-
day the New York City Ballet, run by Lincoln
Kirstein and George Balanchine, is commonly
regarded as the finest of American dance com-
panies, and the New York City Opera has
brought a fresh, imaginative, and generally suc-
cessful approach to lyric drama. The City Cen-
ter also puts on seasons of drama, of musical
comedy, and of Gilbert and Sullivan operettas.
And not least of its contributions to New York
life is its availability to visiting dramatic com-
panies such as the Comedie-Fran^aise, the
Kabuki Theatre of Japan, the Deutsche Schau-
spielhaus, and others.
The City Center is unique in New York not
only for its variety but for its low admission
charges. At all times, the best seat in the house
costs $3.95, making it— as it has no hesitation in
mentioning in its advertisements— the city's big-
gest entertainment bargain. In part this low
price scale is due to the nominal one-dollar-a-
year rental charged by the city for the use of a
cavernous, reconverted Masonic Temple on West
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92
LINCOLN CENTER
55th Street, which was municipally acquired for
nonpayment of taxes in the 1930s. But essentially
the $3.95 top reflects the size of the theatre
which, barn-like as it is, has 3,000 seats, nearly all
of which, like those of Lewisohn Stadium, are
usually covered with people.
"W^hen Lincoln Center was first being planned,
a good deal of hesitation was exhibited over
whether, and in what form, the City Center
should participate in the new enterprise. It is no
secret that while some Metropolitan Opera au-
thorities were willing and even eager to have the
New York City Ballet come to Lincoln Center,
they wanted no part of the New York City Opera,
with its vastly lower prices and its not incon-
siderable artistic achievements. However, the
City Center's directors made it plain that the
ballet and opera wings of the institution would
continue together, come what might. In April of
1961 it was revealed that the Met's board of direc-
tors—which evidently had veto power in the
matter— had "voted unanimously" to withdraw
its objections to the City Center's participation,
and had consented to extend an invitation.
As of now, that invitation has been neither
declined nor accepted by City Center. The posi-
tion of Lincoln Center today is that "it is hoped"
City Center will participate. The position of the
City Center, as expressed by its chairman of the
board, Newbold Morris, is that it would like to
participate, but doesn't know whether it can
"afford to" financially, and that in the meantime,
"we're happy where we are."
SEATS FOR THE FAITHFUL
A MOVE by City Center to Lincoln Center
-^ ■»- is not a simple matter of packing up its be-
longings and shifting to new and more elegant
quarters. The theatre tabbed for the use of the
City Center is the 2,700-seat Dance and Operetta
Theatre, which bears the official name of the
New York State Theatre. It will be paid for by
the state government, and will be operated, for
its first year at least, in conjunction with the New
York World's Fair. From the City Center's
standpoint there are at least two things wrong
with it. One is that its capacity is 300 under that
of Mecca Temple, its present home. The other
is that its rental costs will run far higher than
the present token fee.
As it is, the City Center is not making money.
Its total operating loss in the 1960-61 season-
one of the most successful it has ever had, both
fiscally and artistically-was .5200,000, of which
.$165,000 was made up by contributions from
foundations and individuals. The Center's offi-
cers passed the hat among its friends to get the
rest. In the Dance-Operetta Theatre it is doubt-
ful that the City Center would be able to main-
tain the SI. 95 to $3.95 price structure which is
the hallmark of its service.
The Dance-Operetta Theatre is regarded by
some as a kind of miniature Paris Opera in
design. But it's an open question how well this
horseshoe-tiered, garnet-red-and-Avhite auditor-
ium will serve the needs of the City Center and
its audience. Aside from the subtle but not neces-
sarily inconsequential effect that a change to
lavish surroundings might have on a theatre that
has thrived by making a virtue of adversity, there
is the very real and urgent question of what a
drop in seating capacity might mean both in
audience response and price scale. In defense
of their decision to limit the Dance-Operetta
Theatre to its present size, Lincoln Center author-
ities assert that modern building codes would
require such an extensive structure for a larger
auditorium as to make it prohibitively expensive,
and also that the present City Center Building
is filled to capacity only over weekends and dur-
ing holidays, such as Christmas week, when twice-
daily audiences of school children jam the hall
for Balanchine's incomparable production of
Tchaikovsky's Nutcracker*
But it's not difficult to find City Center cus-
tomers who will argue that in a $140-million
project it should be possible to build a ballet-
operetta theatre at least as commodious as the
one in use now. As for the argument that the
City Center is usually filled to capacity only
weekends and holidays, one large hall advocate
commented sourly, "So is Yankee Stadium."
So the City Center is in a dilemma. If it goes
into Lincoln Center it will find its costs up, its
audiences down, and its price structure endan-
gered—it may have gained a whole world of
marble and glass only to lose its artistic soul.
And Lincoln Center is in a dilemma, too, for if
it leaves out City Center it will not only have
to find another resident ballet company for its
Dance-Operetta Theatre, but it will also be
without the artistic stimulation and audience
loyalty of New York City's one truly popular
theatre of music and ballet.
* Actually the capacity of the Dance-Operetta
Theatre has risen steadily, according to the architect,
"in answer to popular clamor and newspaper edi-
torials." LiiKolii C;enter's original announcement
gave it as 2,000, which was subsequently raised to
2,500. Final plans put it at 2,700 with 100 additional
seats availaljle in the absence of a pit-orchestra— k^.,
for events other than ballet or operetta.
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94
LINCOLN CENTER
The City Center's proj^osed new home, like
that of the Metropolitan Opera, so far exists only
on paper. But the New York Philharmonic's, a
$14,500,000 auditorimn. is actually luuler con-
struction, with its opening set for next vcar. Dc-
sjiite the impossibility at this late date of further
changes in Philharmonic Hall's design, its history
is nevertheless instructive as to the peculiar out-
look of its planners— aside from the irony of their
original rush to build a new home while their
old one was Avaiting to be saved all along.
In Philharmonic Hall the designers did not
start from the premise that assuming Carnegie
Hall was doomed, Ne\\" York City's need was for
a concert hall where the largest possible audience
could comfortably listen to symphonic music—
an auditorium at least as large as Carnegie, with
its 2,760 seats. Instead, they conceived the notion
of a hall that would be "the finest musical in-
strimient in America," a hall, in other words,
with acoustics as perfect as possible. In this hall
there would be room for only 2,500 seats— 2,400
when the stage was enlarged to accommodate a
chorus.
^Mien criticism was voiced of this arrangement
on the grounds that acoustics is among the most
inexact of sciences, that Carnegie Hall with 260
seats more is widely admired for its soiuid, and
that New York's need, at a time when Leonard
Bernstein's Philharmonic concerts were drawing
capacity crowds, was for a larger rather than a
smaller hall, the Center's officials rejjlied with
public pronouncements that "the biggest is not
necessarily the best" and "there can be no com-
promise with quality." It was nevertheless found
possible, almost at the moment concrete was
being poured for the foundations, to squeeze in
one himdred extra seats by adding two rows to
the auditorium.
Important elements of New York's musical
commiuiity are unhappy over Philharmonic
Hall's 2,600 capacity, feeling that the audience,
rather than acoustics, should have been the start-
ing point in the planning, and that it never was
necessary, in any case, to sacrifice the interests of
one to the other.
SAME SORT OF PEOPLE
TH K decisions that have shaped Lincoln
Center have been those of a board of
dire(tors headed by John D. Rockefeller .Hrd and
made up predominantly of successful business
executives known for their interest in the arts.
They are the same son of people who run the
M(trof)oIitan Optra and the Philharmonic; in-
deed. thc\ arc in several instances the same
people. Of the thirteen-mcniber board listed in
the Center's progress report of Jime 1959. fmn-
were directors of the Met and two of the Phil-
harmonic*
The board has subsequently been expanded to
a membership of t\\enty-one. including Robert
Afoses, director of the New York "World's Fair;
Harrv Van .Arsdale. Jr.. president of the New
York City Central Labor Council, who will
represent organized labor; and Oeneral Max\\ell
D. Taylor, former Army Chief of Staff, who was
appointed President of the Center in January
1961, but resigned in June to become President
Kennedy's military adviser.
Besides the advice of its architects, acoustical
experts, construction engineers, etc.. the board has
available to it the artistic counsel of a group
known as the Lincoln Center Council, which con-
sists of the operating heads of the various constit-
uents—Rudolf Bing, general manager of the Met;
Oeorge E. Judd. Jr., managing director of the
* The thirteen were:
Frank Altschul, diairman of the board of General
American Investors Company, Inc.
Robert E. Blum, vice-president of Abraham 8:
Straus: president of the Brooklyn Institute of Arts
and Sciences
John ^V. Drye, Jr.. partner in Kellev. Drye. New-
hall and Maginnes: president of the Juilliard Musical
Foundation; director of the Metropolitan Opera
.Association
Clarence Francis, former president of General
Foods Corporation
Arthur A. Houghton. Jr.. president of Steuben
Glass: chairman of the New York Philharmonic
C. D. Jackson, vice-president of Time Inc.: director
of the Metropolitan Opera Association
Devereux C. Josephs, former chairman of the
board of the New York Life Insurance Company;
trustee of the New York Public Librars'
David M. Reiser, chairman of the board of the
Cuban-American Sugar Company: president of the
New York Philharmonic: trustee of the Juilliard
Musical Foundation: director of Juilliard School of
Music
Rev. Laurence J. McGinley, S.J., president of
Fordham University
Irving S. Olds, member of the law finn of White &
Case: director of the Metropolitan Opera Associa-
tion; trustee of the New York Public Library
fohn D. Rockefeller 3rd. chairman of the Rocke-
feller Foundation
Charles M. Spofford, member ol the law firm of
Davis. Polk. W'ardwell, Sunderland, and Kiendl;
chairman of the executive committee of the Mctro-
]j()liian Opera Association: trustee of the Juilliard
Musical Fouiulation: director of Juilliard School of
Music
George D. Stoddard, dean of the .School ol Educa-
tion, New York University; trustee of the American
Sh.ikesp(;ire Festival Theatre and Academy
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96 LINCOLN CENTER
Philharmonic (until his death this summer);
^V^illiam Schuman, president of Juilliard; Robert
Whitehead, producing director of the Repertory
Theatre, and Reginald Allen, representing the
Center itself. The council's role, although it may
grow in importance once actual operations begin,
is purely advisory.
Although the Center is devoted to the perform-
ing arts, there are neither performers nor artists
on the board of directors. The closest approx-
imation Avas Lincoln Kirstein, managing director
of I he New York Citv Ballet, who was in the
original list of Board members announced in
September 1957. Kirstein, however, resigned in
May 1959. an action which was not widely pub-
licized at the time. He has since made it known
that he felt there was little interest in the ballet
as such, that he was unhappy over the dance
theatre as finally approved, and that even more
basicallv there was "neither principle nor policy
nor patronage for the arts" at Lincoln Center.
COME EARLY, STAY LATE
DESPITE criticism, delays, and obstacles,
Lincoln Center's directors, and those of the
institutions committed to it, express confidence
in the way it is progressing and in its effect upon
the cultural life of the city and the country.
Advertisements appealing to the public for funds
continue to stress such supposedly mass-level at-
tractions as Philharmonic Hall's "5,498-pipe
organ that will take more than a year to build,
and five months to install" and its removable
floor enabling cafe tables and chairs to be in-
stalled for summer "pops" concerts. The Center,
they say, "is going to be great theatre, great
music— and great fun"— italics theirs. .Arrange-
ments will be made for guided tours of the prem-
ises, and an agreement to co-operate has been
reached with the New York World's Fair, which
is scheduled to open the same year that the
Center reaches full operations, 1964.
In the Center's brochures, emphasis is placed
upon the promenades, the plazas, the facades,
and the lobbies— one of which, that of the Dance-
Operetta Theatre, is designed to double as a
banquet room and reception hall for civic func-
tions. Prospective contributors are invited to
"picture the Philharmonic audience of the future
strolling outdoors from the orchestra level to
view the surrounding gaiety of ilhiminated trees,
fountains, and sculpture, joining thousands of
other music and theatre lovers attending per-
formances in other Lincoln Center halls."
The purpose of some of these amenities is not
entirely decorative, for they are also intended
to minimize the transportation problem that is
going to be created when thousands of music
and theatre lovers pour out into the night at the
same time. Lincoln Center will have an under-
ground garage for eight hundred cars, biu it
is served by only one sub^vav line as against a
multiplicity accessible to Carnegie Hall and the
present Metropolitan Opera House. "^Vhat the
Center wishes to do is to make its grounds and
extra-theatrical facilities so attractive that de-
parting audiences A\ill be tempted to linger.
""We hope to attract people earlv with our
dining facilities." says Mr. Allen, "and to keep
them late. "We'd like to change the New York
pattern whereby a couple comes out of the show
and runs for a taxi. "We are seeking a gracious
approach to the arts."
But Avith its major orchestra playing in the
smallest auditorium it has had in seventy years,
with its most popidar ballet company an uncer-
tain and perhaps unwilling participant, with no
room for a Bolshoi Ballet or a La Scala Opera
except during the traditionally worst months of
the year. New York can perhaps wonder, AVhat
price graciousness? For while there can be little
doubt that the city is adding a striking and
shining architectural complex to its skyline, there
is much less certainty that it is increasing its
capacity to bring art closer to the people, or the
people closer to art. After all, the usefulness of
Lincoln Center will be determined not by how
many people come for guided tours through its
edifices, but how many come to hear, see, and
participate in the artistic experiences it offers.
In a purely physical way, Lincoln Center has
already done much to change, for the better, the
face of New York. An unsightly, unhealthy slum
area between "West 62nd and 66th Streets is gone.
Better homes have been found for 1,647 families
in the neighborhood. Impetus has been given
to improvement plans for the entire AVest Side.
All this was accomplished eighteen months ahead
of schedule. As a real-estate project, Lincoln
Center is already a magnificent success.
Yet the challenges it must answer and the
needs it must serve are basically artistic. And in
this realm, Lincoln Center, as it is currently
being designed and developed, shows signs of
replacing old problems with new and, when it
is finished, of leaving the artistic life of New
York ornamented but not enriched. And if it
does only this, can it fairly be said to have ac-
complished its promise of becoming— in its own
words— "a seed-bed of artistic progress" and a
"pifturc of America's cultural maturity"?
Harper's Magazine, October 1961
OUR FRIENDS THE RUSSIANS
HENRIETTA FORT HOLLAND
Oblonsky iold Ihrm of a shoot on
the estates of a xi'dl-knowri rnihony
magnate, Mai thus, of the great
luncJicon lent that had been
pitched beside the marsh. "Lafite
ivilh linnlieon is i)ery nice, but
doesn't the suniptrionsness of it
revolt you?" ashed Levin.
—Tolstoy, Anna Karenina, 1878
THE tent so gaily striped, magenta, pink.
Came from a caterer's in Moscow;
The wine like rubies filled each crystal glass.
And sparkling in the summer sun at noon
Washed down the Flensbtng oysters, turbot, beef,
The macedoine
As sportsmen waited for the evening light, the shroud-
ing crepuscule.
After some laughing hours the brightness paled
To amethyst; and grooms led om the dogs,
The setters— gray or black or mottled brown-
To startle on command above the reeds
A sudden whirr of wings, to turn the sky a-
live with flutter.
Cr-ack-crack; and crack and crack and powder smoke adrift
Through twilight.
Now everywhere the circling snipe
Droj)j)ed down beside the alder grove.
The woodcock tumbled by the slimy pool. . . .
Next afternoon the waiting wagonettes
Conveyed the victors luidcr willow trees
And crescent moon
Prince Stiva saw as yellow diamond brooch— a gift
For ballet girls.
Then back to Malthirs' hiAvns; to princesses
Awaiting, with their prett\ breathless cries
Of "Bravo," overburdened shooting bags!
Swift sportsmen changed at once to proper dress
For candlelight and golden plate and cachet blanc
Champagne for toasts
To niveous throats— to jeweled hands— to sport— to
Midas Malthus.
Outdoors again for brandy— starlight now
And lime trees; flowered terrace to the fore
With scent more costly than parfiim parisien. . . .
Thus was the pillared paradise once reared
By Russia's Iron Horse that summer long ago-
Marred but by Levin's faint
Prophetic voice that asked: "Does not such sumpt-
uousness revolt you?"
And though the answer proved
to be a d(i
That burst into a certain
scarlet star,
A weary world is waiting,
waiting yet
For some response that shall
not be ii\ct.
II
PUBLIC 8c PERSONAL
WILLIAM S. WHITE
The Lady from Oregon
How Maurine Neuberger has earned
a respected place in Washington — not
just as the widow of a beloved Senator,
but as a wise (and efficiently ladylike)
politician in her own right.
WASHINGTON -To be a gen-
tleman in Senatorial politics is surely
no handicap, even though history
has a few instances which might sug-
gest the reverse. But to be a lady in
Senatorial politics is a very good
thing altogether.
I had long suspected this to be
true, on the basis of the considerable
experience of Senator Margaret
Chase Smith, Republican of Maine.
I am now quite sure it is the truth—
and bipartisan truth, at that. For
the record and manner of Senator
Maurine Neuberger, Democrat of
Oregon, during her first session in
Congress, together with Mrs. Smith's
earlier record, provide overwhelm-
ing evidence that the qualities of
the lady are quite useful in what
was once the most exclusive male
club in the world.
Maurine Neuberger carried a
subtly irr)in'c burden when she ar-
rived here last January in succession
to her late husband, Richard Neu-
berger. Dick Neuberger had made a
special place for himself in the Sen-
ate as an insiitution, and in the
niirxis ol his fellow members. \i
the start, the omens for his success
were fjoor. He was widely regarded
lu-re, al first, as far lf>o loudly and
profcssirjiKdIy liberal; as soincihing
of a political accident; as a fellow
likely to talk too much and push his
way forward too soon. In the oddest
—and also most moving— victory of a
man over a stereotype that the Sen-
ate had seen in my time around here,
he reversed within two years this
curiously prematine and imfair ver-
dict. He became a man dccj^ly re-
spected—and, actuallv, loved.
This was becatrse he was a siq^erla-
tively honest man, one of the mcxst
quietly courageous I ever knew in
politics. He was also a mm of a
true liberalistn. wiih a leadv and al-
most overflowing tolerance. Though
he never abandoned his princijDles,
nor sought to ciury anybody's favor,
he became the familiar, in the best
sense, of the best men in the Senate.
This was sometimes because of what
he thought; but it was always be-
cause of what he was.
At first glance, this would seem to
be a spiritual legacy which would
surely be useful to the widow who
now came forward to take his seat.
In fact, however, it was not this at
all. For Maurine Neuberger came
here not merely as the relict of Rich-
ard Neuberger; but also as Maurine
Neuberger. She did not seek, nor
was it good for her to receive, the
automatic affection which had been
earned by another. She wanted to
make ii, or lose it, on her own. She
had rightly felt and said in her cam-
paign that the voters' choice should
not be based on memories of another
Senator, however fond, but on the
haid bin honest concern: What kind
ol a Sciiaioi would the rieiu aspirant
make, all sentiment aside?
She was aware, of course, that she
Avould never ha\ e reached the Senate
but for Richard Netiberger. But she
felt reluctant to seek an office or to
gain success in it for reasons so
deeply personal. So, the long and
short of it was that she had to
work her own passage in spite of the
personal friendships made by lier
Inisband. This, in my judgment, she
has largely done. She had, in a word,
to surrnoiDit kindness; neither to
trade on the past nor be mortgaged
to it. For she was, in fact, much
more than Dick Neubcrger's wife.
She had been a working politician
as long as he; and, in the view of
some unsentimental observers, per-
haps in some ways a better one.
WHAT SHE KNEW
SHE had met her husband when
both were members of the Oregon
Legislatme. And when he came to
the Senate she came too, as an able
and perhaps even an indispensable,
assistant. Much of the active work in
his office (and a great deal of it, in-
deed, in practical matters like taking
care of home affairs in Oicg(jn) had
fallen to her. In consequence, she
knew from the beginning more
about the facts of Senate life than
any of its other freshman members,
all male, and incomparably more
than some of them.
Still, when she came to take her
seat, she knew that she had problems
of a sjjecial kind. While any new
Senator would make a great mistake
by being either very vocal or very
demanding, she, as a woman and as
CO 4
1-4
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In the first place, Rural Electric Systems already
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payjnent record is 99.998% perfect — one of the finest
in the history of banking.
Nearly 1000 Rural Electric Systems — mostly cooper-
atives— have invested these funds in iy2-million miles
of line and other facilities. Today nearly 17 million
rural Americans, who found, no other practical way to
obtain electricity, depend on these rural systems for
light and power.
Secondly, the Rural Electrification program has
benefited all Americans:
• Higher rural living standards — modern homes,
better schools and churches.
• More healthful conditions for both town and
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country — a century of progress in just 25 years.
Abundance of high quality food for everyone.
Growth of new industry in many regions.
Dispersal of vital national defense installations.
Leadership in rural development to build a
stronger America.
Creation of a new multi-bilHon dollar market for
electrical products.
New jobs, new payrolls for millions in America's
cities and towns.
This double return makes REA
loans to rural electrics one of the
best investments our government
has ever made. That's why we say
rural electrification is good for all
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AMERICA'S RURAL ELECTRIC SYSTEMS
100
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PUBLIC & PERSONAL
the recent widow of a Senator, would
need to be very restrained, indeed.
This quality of restraint she set
about at once, calmly and unwor-
riedly, to gain and maintain. A
woman in politics, as she puts it,
can begin very easily to "sound like
a Carrie Nation," particularly in a
body so long reserved for men. So,
all through the session, she stayed
on her back bench and kept her
counsel, except for rare and brief
exchanges on the floor.
She made friends with the only
other woman Senator, Mis. Smith of
Maine, but she cheamed of no arm-
in-arm feminist bloc of two; nor did
Mrs. Smith.
A tallish, willowy woman of con-
siderable natural reserve, Mrs. Neu-
berger thinks of herself as not much
of a politician by instinct. This
notion, maybe, arises from the fact
that she has no interest in political
techniques for their own sake; she
spends little time in delightedly ex-
amining the inner workings of politi-
cal organizations or movements. She
is a "good Democrat," meaning that
she is a party woman who attends
caucuses, eager to be a working mem-
ber. She is in this sense, indeed,
rather less "in(lc):)cn(lcnt" than is
Mrs. Smith, towaid whom the Sen-
ate's organization Republicans are
inclined to turn bleak and impatient
eyes.
But to Mrs. Neuberger politics is
only a tool by which one hopes to
accomplish certain results in public
affairs. Though something of a
heroine to the very-liberal, and
though most of the time she votes
the very-liberal line, she lacks both
the vehemence and the deep partisan
feeling of that group. She cannot,
for illustration, find it possible to
hate, or even to dislike, Republicans
as such, not even the most ultra-
conservative.
She takes little j)art in purely or-
ganization politics in Oregon, and
serves on few committees ^vhich pre-
pare resolutions. She looks upon her
following at home as pro-Maurine
Neuberger rather than strictly Demo-
cratic or liberal or whatnot. She is
pleased that she has the backing of
a good many Republicans, and
hopes to have it again. She does not,
however, expect either to solicit any
backing or to retain it by "making
a rcccnd lor Oregon iiuerests." She
NEXT MONTH IN
Harper's
magazine
HOW TO DESTROY
THE CHURCHES
Why Americans who believe
in organized religion must pre-
vent shortsighted clergymen from
knocking down Jefferson's "wall of
separation" between church and
state.
By Edmond Cahn
INDIA TRIES BIRTH CONTRO:
BY SURGERY
Report on a drastic, but promij
ing, experiment to check Asia'
rising tide of population.
By Rowland Evans, Ji
HENRI CARTIER-BRESSON
ON PHOTOGRAPHY
A unique interview with th<
camera-shy modern master of tb
camera.
By Yvonne Bab^
UP TO OUR NECKS
IN SOFT WHITE SUDS
They may be easy on mother's
hands . . . but detergents are a!
mounting menace to our lakes'
sewage systems, and drinking
water.
By Maya Pine. \
THE CULT OF PERSONALITY
COMES TO THE WHITE HOUSI
Is there a man on horseback oi
I lie horizon? An analysis of thi|
pitfalls ahead for our new hero
President.
By Williaju G. Carletoil
101
PUBLIC & PERSONAL
resses the first two words in the
irase, "United States Senator."
She wants to become a national
ihtician; though she is in no hurry
)out it. As a sensible woman, she
certainly not anxious to offend any
)me political group, but I suspect
e would in the bitter end never
pport such an interest over the
'erriding national interest. She
Duld, I think, "vote for the coun-
y"— for the country in her own
j^hts, that is— resembling in that re-
ect such otherwise not similar
laracters as Harry Byrd of Virginia,
ihn Stennis of Mississippi, Hubert
umphrey of Minnesota, Leverett
Itonstall of Massachusetts, John
joper of Kentucky, and— yes—
/erett McKinley Dirksen of Illinois.
She is, that is to say, a lady in
)litics, in the basic sense that they
e gentlemen in politics— a sense of
>bk'sse oblige toward the United
ates of America in any ultimate
isis.
A downright woman, she lays no
aim in private conversation to this
eful and uncommon quality. She
ts no hero-dust in her eyes; no
lendid death-wish, any more than
) the others I have mentioned here,
is simply that she is aware that
ere are some things, if a very few,
ore important than personal politi-
1 survival, and that— on rare oc-
sions— her high office puts upon
r the requirement to act with a
^h responsibility worthy of the
b.
Thus, while she takes no greater
ting risks than did her late hus-
nd, she worries a great deal less
out the ones she must take. Neu-
rger was the very model of the
erconscientious worrier. Maurine
^uberger frets little, once she has
ide up her mind what to do, about
lat constituents or others will
ink. She simply accepts the in-
itabilities of life. Letters pour in
her, as they did on her late hus-
nd, from out of state. She does
t try to answer them— as he did—
cept in rare cases. She knows that
2 simply has not got the time. It
much the same with speaking in-
ations. She reckons that a Sen-
)r's job is in the Senate; so she
nost never goes away from here
"make talks." And, on the same
derstanding of her real job, she
ikes none of those compulsively
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grandeur that mists your eyes
Was paradise made in Japan?
Paradise is Japan . . . from the " *' ^1!I^I>«!i»«*^^
beauty of its shrines to the generosity in its people's hearts. A leading
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AS Rockefeller Plaza, New York 20, N. Y. • 333 North Michigan Avenue, Chicago 1, Illinois
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PUBLIC & PERSONAL
frequent returns to the home stat^
which so many Senators make.
NO POPPER-UPPE]
SHE has, therefore, a traditional
view of the Senate, ironically far
more like that, say, of Senator Rus-
sell of Georgia than like that of those
Senators with whom she normally
votes— men like Clark of Pennsyl-
vania, Douglas of Illinois, and Morse
of Oregon. The ladylike quality oB{
reserve keeps her— to the great pain
of young male members of her staff
who want her to "get in there and
make a name"— not only out of the
Democratic side of the Senate club-
house, the Democratic cloakroom,
but also out of that condition which
she defines as "popper-upper."
A "popper-upper" is a Senator
who is forever popping up in de-
bate with observations intended tO;
put him on the side of the angels
Reserve, however, does not inhibi
her from carrying out whatever
normal tough political activities are
really needed. Once, for illustration,
in seeking a patronage job from the
Department of Agriculture for a po
IJtical backer, she ran into a road
block.
She carried the contest forward
with a determination no less firm
for being, by definition, feminine.
She lost the game in the end; but she
observed in parting from the bureau-
crat who had frustrated her: "Very
well, if you must deny this job, then
I suppose you must. But I really
must say to you honestly that if you'
do I am terribly afraid I shall not
have a very warm place in my heart
hereafter either for you or for your
proposals up here in the Senate."
The fact that this threat wa
trimmed with lace did not diminish
its effectiveness; Senator Neuberge
was thereafter on a firmer footin
with the Department of Agriculture!
Nor has she been inhibited, in act
ing in her role as a member of the
Committee on Agriculture, by being^
pretty far out in left field, along with
two other strictly nonrural types
Senators Eugene McCarthy of M
ncsota and Philip Hart of Michigan
The old boys who run the Com-
mittee on Agriculture do not pre-
cisely shun Senators McCarthy, Hart,
and Ncubcrger; but they do not
eagerly demand the views of these
1
itn
DesJ
[in-^
103
PUBLIC & PERSONAL
Ity-slicker types. Maurine takes this
[1 with the same wryly demure
umor which she exhibits in the
snate chamber when one of the old
oys up front is being cut down to
ze among her seat mates in private
Dmmentaries resembling those of
uiior officers at the far end of the
less table when a windy general is
olding forth above the salt.
On such large and rather less than
impelling topics as whether women-
i-politics have it tougher or easier
lan men-in-p61itics, "Senator Neu-
erger is quite objective. It is her
ublic position that distinctions of
lis sort are nonsense; for of course
le has no wish to promote whatever
nti-feminism may still exist among
le unenlightened.
HOW FEMINIST?
H E concedes privately that of
aurse there arc distinctions. She
as found, however, that in the Sen-
te after a short time a Senator is
mply a Senator. Small deferences
re, of course, paid to her. A male
enator will naturally stand back for
er to enter an elevator, and that
Drt of thing. But when important
usiness is afoot, she finds that she
I a vote from Oregon, and that is
^at.
Thus her view is that a special
iroblem does exist for women in
lolitics; but not in her performance
n office. Where she is up against a
lalpable discrimination is in getting
lected in the first place. Mrs. Neu-
erger takes the line that this is a
ict of life; that very little can be
one about it; and that the most
onstructive approach to it for a
Oman politician is just to foi'get
bout it as much as possible.
She declines, both as a matter of
xpedience and a matter of principle,
3 debate the proposition whether
'omen ought to be in politics, and
jecifically whether they ought to be
1 the Senate. She puts no chintzy
bjects in her office, but on the other
and she does not feel that the his-
iric principle of equality between
le sexes is absolutely undone if
5me chap happens to tip his hat to
er in passing.
In summary, Senator Maurine
Jeuberger is a sensible type, indeed;
nd we could use a good many more
f this kind of woman-in-politics.
REWARD
for
documented information
relating famous 19^^ century
Americans to OLD CROW. . •
History is where you find it. It may lie among long-forgotten
notes and letters in an attic trunk ... in a collection of old
newspapers ... or in a biography or novel you may be reading
today. These are the raw materials of history by which such
famous men as Daniel Webster, Henry Clay and Mark Twain
have been linked with Old Crow. Should you find and be
the first to contribute other historical facts about Old Crow,
which we accept, your reward will be $250.
Awards of 250—
have already been
paid for the follow-
ing information..;
0. HENRY-A tavern
owner sent us a letter
from a bartender ■whp
personally served the
famous author in which
O. Henry is quoted as
calling Old Crow "su-
perb."
JACK LONDON-A
seaman found a news
article stating that
London proposed a
toast to his friend Mar-
tin Eden, "Skaal to Old
Crow— it's the bestl"
ANDREW JACKSOl^
—A student found an
old Chicago newspaper
article which quoted
Andrew Jackson as
praising Old Crow in
the highest terms.
GOV. R. LETCHER
—A scholar uncovered
an 1849 letter advising
Orlando Brown, "Never
open your mouth unless
it is to swallow a 'lee-
tle' drop of the Old
Crow."
OI.O CROW
Tlease send letters describing the historical fact or facts
about Old Crow which you have discovered to the
OLD CROW HISTORICAL BUREAU • 149 MADISON AVE., NEW YORK. N.Y.
who shall be sole judges of the acceptability of data submitted.
OLD CROW DISTILLERY CO., FRANKFORT, KY., DISTR. BY NATIONAL DISTILLERS PRODUCTS CO., KENTUCKY STRAIGHT BOURBON WHISKEY. 86 PROOF
the new
BOOKS
ALFRED KAZIN
Notes on the Writing of History Today
Since his first hook. "On Native Grounds"
(1942), Alfred Kazin has been one of America'' s
leading critics. A new book of his essays — entitled
"Contemporaries" — will be published this fall by
Atlantic-Little, Broivn.
IN THE hot dawn of July 18, 1936, a group
of Spanish Army officers, backed by the
Church, by the Falange, and the wealthy classes,
began a rebellion against the legally elected gov-
ernment of the Spanish Republic. By the time
the Civil War had ended, early in 1939, over
400,000 Spaniards had died (the figure is often
given as a million), and to millions of people
throughout the world the struggle of the Spanish
Republic against all that was most selfish, super-
stitious, arrogant, and inhuman in Spanish so-
ciety signified what an American historian has
called "the last great cause." Even the Soviet
officials and specialists in Spain (Stalin sent
enough aid to keep the war going indefinitely,
not enough to enable the Republic to win),
began to feel a new surge of revolutionary hope
for their own country as they watched the ordi-
nary Spanish folk fighting for their lives. The
last twist in the history of this unexpected op-
position to Stalin is that many of these Soviet
citizens, returning to Russia in the midst of the
great purges there, were shot along with thou-
sands of other Communists whom Stalin feared
as real or potential critics of his monolithic
regime.
To read Hugh Thomas's The Spanish Civil
War (Harper, .SS.SO) is to realize the distance we
have traveled in this generation from even the
idea of a "great cause." For what makes Mr.
Thomas's superb and scholarly history so pe-
culiarly affecting to me is that he is able to evoke,
from the records alone, the magnificent hope
that appeared to so many people-and then to
make one feel, against the background of every-
thing that has happened since 1939, the im-
m-nce pi(y of so many hopes and the hoii^r of
so much bloodshed. He makes even the most pas-
sionate partisan of the Spanish Republic feel-
along with the political defeats and dismay of
our own period— the futility of so much hope
in the past. Reading his book, I, too, like Neville
Chamberlain and Anthony Eden and the French
Foreign Office, cou^d not wait for the war to end,
though this meant the victory of Franco. So that
what affects me is the fact that even the Spanish
Civil War now becomes just another of the many
causes that our generation has learned to be wise
about. And the reason why even this war can
appear so in Mr. Thomas's book is not that he
was born in 1931— when before our time would
a man of thirty have seemed "young?"— but that
he was able to undertake his book and to finish
it because of the enforced sense of "moderation"
and of historical "balance" that everyone in our
generation is so strong in. We are so exhausted
with past wars and future cataclysms, so dis-
gusted with the human animal that made
Guernica and Almeria, the Moscow Trials,
Auschwitz, and Hiroshima, we are so frightened
that what happened to the Basques and the Jews
and the Gypsies could happen to us, that virtually
all historical action in defense of a great cause
now seems to us not merely vain but mad. We
are so alive to the horrors of the next war that
we can no longer be just to the past ones— even
the Spanish Civil War, even the American Civil
War, are no longer seen as historical surges but
as unfortunate historical accidents. We are the
generation that comes after wars and revolutions,
exterminations and purges; the generation of
retrospections and reconsiderations, the genera-
tion that knows that hinnan nature is not to be
trusted and that this will have to be enough
to save us.
No wonder that reading The Spanisli Civil
War against the background of the only period
that could have connnissioncd or sustained a
scholarly work of such exquisite fairness, one's
buried loyalties and enlhusiasms occasionally
steal up from the unconscious like forbidden
thoughis. Franco's most terrible sliock troops,
the Spanish Foreign Legion, used to cry Viva la
The Swivel Chair
Swivel is a good word for it this
month. The chair turns irresistibly, stead-
ily and comes full circle. From the de-
^^^i^K^ lights of space speculation to the terror
^ ^ of inner collapse, — there are books to
tempt a pause at a dozen points of the mind's compass.
First there is the cosmos as illuminated by a writer who
is equal parts scientist, poet, and synthesizer-extraordi-
nary. There are two novels of two recent wars, one of
an American POW in Korea — and readers of this will
never use the word brainwashing lightly again — the
other a subtle exploration of a man vis-a-vis an inex-
plicable enemy. There has to be one beautiful woman
in this circuit and she, like Scarlett O'Hara before her,
is a woman wholly of another age, wholly of our own.
Another turn of the chair, this time lo the infinite
variety of a collection of short stories even more diverse
than usual. And thereafter to the chronicle of a bi-
zarrely wrong-and-right marriage that produced out of
its agony some of the world's great writing. Then, and
here the chair dips in homage, to a novel that, by con-
trolled understatement, may be fairly described as
eagerly awaited. The next direction is toward nursery
and the teen-ager's home territory — a book for parents
and grandparents, for uncles, aunts, and cousins to the
fourth degree. On the home stretch, dedicated aficiona-
dos— of ballads„and of bullfighting. And
last, a book of cosmic tragedy, limning
the tortured world of the dope addict.
The chair rests its case, let the
critics take over.
Music of the Spheres by Guy Murchie
A second national best-seller by the author of Song OF
THE Sky. "The work of an extraordinary man, for
whom the great world of Space and the closely con-
nected tiny world of the Atom are opportunities for a
spectacular mental voyage. He sees the Cosmos as a
poet might. He hears the music of the spheres as a
musician might." Clifton Fadiman
The Mountain and the Feather by John
Ashmead
"A cycloramic, complex and nostalgic picture of the
war in the Pacific ... by turns witty, perceptive,
tender, ironical, bawdy , . . superb first novel." N.Y.H.T.
Night by Francis Pollini
*'This powerful novel about G.I. prisoners of war does
for the Korean conflict what A Farewell to Arms did
for World War I ... as obscene as war itself; it may
very well become a classic." Library Journal
Savanna by Janice Holt Giles
A new novel by the author of Johnny Osage of
which the Chicago Tribune said "his-
torical fiction of a high order of excel-
lence — reminiscent, indeed, of Conrad
Richter's novels. That, to my mind, is
high praise."
Best American Short Stories
1961 edited by Martha Foley and
David Burnett
Like its predecessors, the 1961 volume
contains stories to suit all moods and
tastes and brings out the many facets of good contem-
porary writing.
Married to Tolstoy by Cynthia Asquith
"Lady Asquith has illuminated not only Tolstoy's life
but many of his works . . . She had also given more
than a passing glimpse into the world of pre-revolution-
ary Russia ... its ferment and famines and the charac-
ters of her tragic yet warmly human story become
almost Tolstoyan themselves, in their complexity and
contradictions . . ." N. Y. Herald Tribune
Clock Without Hands by Carson McCullers
"She has once again, and more deeply than ever before,
examined the heart of man, with an understanding be-
yond knowledge, a compassion beyond sentiment, and
with a mastery of her medium that no other writer now
living can hope to surpass." Tennessee Williams
And at the same time, the great nov-
els and short stories of Carson McCul-
lers, reissued in handsome gift editions:
The Heart Is A Lonely Hunter
Reflections In A Golden Eye
The Member of the Wedding
Collected Short Stories and the novel The Ballad
of the Sad Cafe
Dr. Spock Talks With Mothers: Growth
and Guidance
The best-loved authority on child care explains the
deeper meanings of the behavior — and misbehavior
— of children from infancy to adolescence. "An ideal
supplement to the original book which is now a house-
hold byword" . . . prepublication review
The Ballad Book of John Jacob Niles by
John Jacob Niles
"110 ballads, selected, for their classic qualities, from
the author's long years of collecting ... An authority,
Mr. Niles has made available much worthwhile mate-
rial." prepublication review
Barnaby Conrad's Encyclopedia of Bull-
fighting
"Magnificent — the best book Barnaby Conrad has
written." Carlos Arruza
The Fantastic Lodge, The Autobiography
of a Girl Drug Addict edited by Helen MacGill
Hughes
"A terrible true story, with its sad contrasts between
the incoherence of the addict's phantom world and the
intelligent, bitter self-knowledge of the
girl who lived it." prepublication review
Houghton Mifflin Company
m
106
THE NEW BOOKS
muerte! Abajo la inteligencia! ("Hurrah for
death and down with intelligence!"), and when
you read in Mr. Thomas's book of the Foreign
Legion in Seville under General Yagiie forcing
the workingmen out of their houses into the
streets, where they were knifed to death, or that
in Galicia the rebellion "was only to be assured
after terrible street-fighting, for the grave and
poverty-stricken peasants came in from the coun-
try in carts and on foot as if to a fiesta, resolved
to fight to the death," you suddenly remember
that the Spanish war did seem to enlist the world-
wide forces of intelligence against the age-old
Spanish forces of death. No wonder that the war
was, for the Western world, "a most passionate
war. . . . For intensity of emotion, the second
world war seemed less of an event than the
Spanish war . . . the great moment of hope for an
entire generation angry at the apparent cynicism,
indolence, and hypocrisy of an older generation
with whom they were out of sympathy."
COOL, SKEPTICAL, AWARE
Mr. George Kennan's Russia and the West under
Lenin and Stalin (Atlantic-Little, Brown, $5.75)
seems to me a masterpiece of detached and pro-
found understanding on this cruelly urgent sidi-
ject. I have never seen anywhere such clear and
final insight into the limited possibilities we
face vis-a-vis the Soviet Union today. Yet the
deepest side of his book is his demonstration that
the 1914-18 war was entirely catastrophic in its
effects, and that the Allied insistence on keeping
Kerensky's Russia in the war even after the
March revolution was as much to blame for the
Bolsheviks' coming to power as the Allied in-
sistence on punishing the Weimar Republic for
the sins of Imperial Germany was to blame for
helping to bring Hitler to power.
Mr. Kennan writes as an expert diagnostician,
one might almost say pathologist, of the period
since 1917 that now seems to us an unrelieved
history of illusions, mistakes, and crimes. Though
his tone is urbane, his analysis is so severe that
it is hard to escape the impression that the writ-
ing of history in our time has become a form of
psychopathology. The diplomatist in Mr. Ken-
nan, with his particularly cool and skeptical
awareness, makes the ideal historian of these
matters. Mr. Kennan, whose distaste could not be
plainer for the Communist glorification of
tyranny and its particularly aggressive material-
ism, nevertheless tends to be as cool about our-
selves as he is about the Russians. Describing our
own parochialism toward the outside world, he
can actually say that "We represent, all of us, a
society in which the manifestations of evil have
been carefully buried and sublimated in the so-
cial behavior of people, as in their very conscious-
ness ... the mainsprings of political behavior
in such a country as Russia tend to remain con-
cealed from our vision." He says— in regard to
Allied suspicion of Russia from 1917 on— that "It
is characteristic of those who think of themselves
as nice people (and to this category we Anglo-
Saxons outstandingly belong) that they are slow
to react to provocation but once they feel their
interests or their security to be seriously jeopard-
ized, they respond with a peculiar violence and
vindictiveness and with a notable lack of political
discrimination."
He notes the insanely vindictive food blockade
of Germany that the French kept up for more
than a year after the 1918 armistice— which of
course starved the poorest and most defenseless
elements of the population and the children; the
now unbelievable aggressiveness that the Allies
showed against the democratic Weimar republic
just before they began to appease Hitler; their
equally irrational insistence on the war debts.
"The war, which Allied statesmen still insisted
on viewing as a contest supposed to yield to the
victor all the just fruits of virtue triumphant,
had been really 'a shocking, irreparable act of
self-destruction on the part of Europe as a whole,
a debauch of violence so destructive and so in-
jurious to all concerned that no hopeful ap-
proach to a repair of the damage could be
founded on allegations about who had owed
what to whom at one stage or another before
or during the calamity."
No wonder that with this somber awareness
that violence, whether in war or by revolutionary
fanaticism, creates a political atmosphere in
which it is impossible for reason to function,
Mr. Kennan sees so little objective political
significance in Stalin's purges of the 'thirties. Mr.
Kennan believes that Stalin was morbidly jealous
of the Westernized Communist intellectuals who
had been in exile before the Revolution, and
that he was deeply afraid that international so-
cialism would turn against him. Though Stalin
controlled the party from Lenin's death in 1924
until his own in 1953, "he seems never to have
lost the fear that if his rivals ever succeeded in
enlisting against him the moral force of Socialist
opinion outside of Russia, his rule could be
shaken and he could be lost. . . . He wanted
to hide his fear of foreign socialism and com-
munism, and to disguise the measures he took to
defend himself against this danger, behind an
apparent concern for the security of the Soviet
Union. . . . Trotsky, and all that Trotsky repre-
sented, was Stalin's real fear; Hitler was largely
his excuse for fear. That is why his measures of
defense against Hitler were singularly unreal and
ineffective. He was prepared for the pretense, the
artificial bugbear, of capitalist intervention, but
not for its reality."
But though Mr. Kennan calls Stalin a man of
incredible criminality he insists that Khrushchev
"Rarely has there been
an autobiography so
completely revealing
of its author.''
-VIRGINIA KIRKUS
The
Autobiography
of
ELEANOR
ROOSEVELT
"Life was meant to be lived,
and curiosity must be kept
alive. One must never, for
whatever reason, turn one's
back on life."
So writes Mrs. Roosevelt in
the Preface, and no words
could more completely charac-
terize her and the long,
eventful life she has so de-
lightfully recorded.
Based on three volumes
published during the past
quarter-century, this personal
history from childhood to the
present has been extensively
revised and includes five
brand-new chapters on the re-
cent experiences of one who
will always be America's First
Lady.
With 24 pages
of illustrations, including
59 photographs. $6.95
A brilliant history
Freedom in
the Ancient World
By HERBERT J. MULLER
By the distinguished author of Issues of Freedom
and The Loom of History — a history of Western
civilization from prehistoric times through the age
of Rome and Byzantium, with special emphasis on
man's experiments with freedom. With this admir-
able volume, Professor Muller begins his long-
awaited history of freedom — political, religious and
creative — from earliest times to the present.
24 pages of photographs; endpaper map.
$7.50
Close-up of the American college
Campus U.S. A.
Portraits of American Colleges in Action
««S)K<<'->S:::o:s?„
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By DAVID BOROFF
These profiles of representative American colleges —
Harvard, Sarah Lawrence, Smith, Brooklyn, Birm-
ingham-Southern, Wisconsin, Michigan, Claremont
and Swarthmore — make a lively, candid, important
contribution to our knowledge of what is right and
what is wrong with higher education today. As
Harper's readers know, Mr. Boroff is an expert, hon-
est, sometimes ruthless reporter of all aspects of
American college life. $4.50
AT ALL BOOKSTORES • HARPER & BROTHERS
108
''One of the
outstanding
biographies
our time."
John Mason Brown
MARK SCHORER'S
SINCLAIR LEWIS:
An American Life
HERE is an unsparing, compelling-
ly sympathetic portrait of one
of America's greatest and most tragic
literary figures . . . Sinclair Lewis.
The life of this brilliant, tor-
mented man was even more dramatic,
more startling, than any of his own
celebrated novels. He was the first
American to receive the Nobel Prize
— yet he was a hopeless alcoholic, a
failure as a father and a husband, and
a restless, embittered wanderer to the
end of his days.
Now Mark Schorer traces Lewis'
life and loves, his rise as a writer and
his downfall as a man. This new
biography does full justice to its mon-
umental hero.
Book-of-the-Month Club selection
for October. $10.00
NEW
McGRAW-HILL BOOKS
Majesty and Mischief:
A Mixed Tribute to F.D.R.
By William S. White. A controversial,
surprising analysis of what Roosevelt
really accomplished, of what sort of man
he really was, and what the lasting effects
of his Presidency will be — by the re-
nowned newsman and Washington edi-
tor for Haipci's iVfagazinc. $4.95
Slums and Suburbs
A Commentary on Schools
in Metropolitan Areas
By Ja.mi.s Bryant Conant. A shocking
report by one of America's foremost edu-
cators. Dr. Conant dramatically shows
how the schools in both underprivileged
and ovcrpriviJcgcd communities promote
delinquency and failure.
$1.95 paperback; $3.95 hard cover
Now at your bookstore
McGRAW-HILl
THE NEW BOOKS
has at least made possible a more
reasonable exchange of views within
the Communist party and between
ourselves and Russia. So that today
"the illusion of total antagonism can
be created only by a complete ab-
sence of effective communication";
;ind for this reason Mr. Kennan is
"inclined to doubt . . . whether an
enemy with whom one can com-
municate is really entirely an enemy,
after all."
PERILS OF OFFICE
THE psychological tone of Mr.
Kennan's particularly brilliant chap-
ters on Stalin is inteiesting by the
side of Robert Vincent Daniels'
The Conscience of the Revolution:
Communist Opposition in Soviet
Russia (Harvard, ,110), another fine
work by an American scholar from
the Russian Research Center at Harv-
ard. For one of the most fascinating
examples of Stalin's pathological
jealousy (he was himself of Napo-
leonic stature) is the fact that "all
the prominent survivors were no-
tably short men"! Of course, Profes-
sor Daniels does not trace the fate of
Stalin's opponents and victims to
personal obsessions alone; the con-
clusion of his brilliantly concen-
trated study is that the opposition
represented true Marxist and West-
ern values but was hopelessly
swamped by the Leninism which be-
came the natural successor to Tsarist
oppression and of which in its turn
Stalin became the natural heir.
Similarly, the English scholar
James Joll has written an interesting
book on Three Intellectuals in
Politics (Pantheon, $4.50), which
shows how in France so virtuous a
statesman as Leon Blum, and in
Germany so idealistic a foreign min-
ister as Walther Rathenau, both suc-
cumbed to the more powerful forces
of reaction and race hatred. Mr.
Joll's book is interesting, though of
no particular consequence (his third
"intellectual in politics," the Italian
Futurist and eventual Fascist, Fi-
lippo Marinetti, was not really in
politics as were Blum and Rath-
enau), and the biographical emphasis
seems to be inadetjuate to the di-
mensions ol the siibjed. Thetc is
nothing in Mr. [oil's (ha{)ier on
Blum lliat makes the administrative
dilficultics of a great idealist in of-
SILENCE
by John Cage
Essays, lectures, and anec-
dotes revealing the new and
intriguing dimension of cre-
ativity reflected in the scores
— and in the thinking— of the
outstanding composer of avant-
garde music today.
288 pages. $5.75
Coming October 26
ESSAY ON ATOMISM
from Democritus to 1960
by Lancelot Law Whyte
"Puts within the reader's grasp
a creative insight into whatj
may be the physics of the'
future. Only Lancelot LaWi
Wh>'te could have written thi.'
book." —P. W. Bridgmar,
108 pages. $2.9c
Just published \
FIGHT
CANCER
WITH A
CHECKUP
AND A
CHECK
AMERICAN CANCER SOCiETr
IK
1(1
Indian Springs Scliool
An (TKiowcd private hoardiiiK school, grades 0 through
for l)ovs who are going to college, and who aspire to ex
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■ihlc III wiirlliv sliiilenls. lOrirollnicrit llmitcil to Kill Ij
small cliisscs .Aliiiiidant extra-curricular activities: ml
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of nirmlnRhaiii on IV S. :il Applications now hi
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liv I'arlicipalinK In Crcatinri Tluougli Intelligence."
I.ouis E. Armstrone. Dir., Box B, Helena. Alabl
flics
109
THE NEW BOOKS
? so painfully clear as in the
■id passages of Hugh Thomas's
ok showing Blum in despair over
' blockade of arms to Loyalist
iiin forced on him by the English
d by the right-wingers in his own
^'ernment. And since Blum, while
11 in office, was almost killed by
ti-Semitic Fascist thugs and
fdther Rathenau was assassinated
1922 by right-wing extremists, as
ich for being a Jew as for being
eign minister of the hated Wei-
ir Repuiilic, I suspect that the
:)b]em of being an "intellectual"
politics is perhaps less of a gen-
ii problem than that of being a
w in office.
VULNERABLE TODAY
N this particular point there has
it come to hand a staggering and
t'aluablc book, Raid Hilbcrg's
le Destruction of the European
ws (Quadrangle Books, Chicago,
7.50), which is a double-columned
ok of almost 800 pages and the
yst fidly documented study of the
wish fate under Hitler that I have
br seen. This is the other way in
lich history has to be written in
Ir time— in tables of the dead, in
ief accoiuits drawn from the trials
war criminals of the incredible
iielties visited by Rumanian Ease-
ls against five-year-old children, in
J2 horror of Italian Jews arrested
d sent off to death virtually from
der the Papal windows, in the in-
lely detailed legislation about
icial mongrels of the first and sec-
d degree." Frankly, I do not see
fW anyone can read this book with-
recognizing how vulnerable
eryone is today to this kind of as-
alt.
THEORY ALONE
N D by the same token it is diffi-
It for me to take seriously those
1-fashioned and majestic theories
history, whether by Toynbee or
arx or whoever, which seem to
ve been written out of theory
one, without benefit of the fright-
I knowledge that our age is privy
. Toynbee's Reconsiderations (Ox-
rd, $10; Volume XII of A Study
History) is an answer to his many
atics and as learned as ever, but
lyone who has ever lived even one
^^Irresistibly good reading^ '^
MASTER
OF THIS
VESSEL
By GWYN GRIFFIN
Author of By the North Gate
In this spellbinding novel, the passengers aboard a storm-whip-
ped ocean liner are mercilessly pitted against each other and the
sea. "Immensely readable. . . , [Mr. Griffin] writes with intense
drama and the kind of technical authority in which Kipling
excelled. . . . [His] breath-taking account of an Indian Ocean
cyclone makes the storms in Conrad's Typhoon and The Nig-
ger of the Narcissus seem like teapot tempests."
— -J^-Orville Prescott, N. Y. Times
2nd large printing • $4.95
Hannibal
Enemy of Rome
By LEONARD COTTRELL
Set against a sweeping panorama of antiquity, here is the epic
adventure story of the military genius who led an army 1,000
miles across the Alps and almost succeeded in annihilating
Rome; "Cottrell is as readable as a good war correspondent."
— Newsweek. 16 pages of photographs and maps. $5.00
" ' Tr. ■ ^r.o nPfln- 1 024 American fighting men.
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By RICHARD F.
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author of Abandon Ship!
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26 pages of photographs plus endpaper maps • $4.95
A t all bookstores
HOLT, RINEHART AND WINSTON, INC.
RAIVD
HO
B€^okl|
^. iilMl
The New World
of Philosophy
By Abraham Kaplan. A masterful, lucid guide
to the major philosophies of the world. $4.95
A History of
Russia
By Jesse D. Clahkson. One of America's lead-
ing Russian scholars reviews a thousand color-
ful years. Illustrated. $10.00
Tlie African
Revolution
By James Cameron. What started the African
revolution . . . and where will it end? Illustrated
with maps. $3.95
The Arab
Revival
By Francesco Gabrieli. A provocative key to
that jigsaw puzzle of rivabry, the modern Arab
world. $3.95
The Wisdom
of Buddhism
Edited by Christmas Humphreys. England's
foremost authority on Buddhism presents a
comprehensive anthology of Buddhist writings.
$4.95
The Politics of
Totalitarianism
By John A. Armstrong. The definitive history
of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union
since 1934. $7.50
Nrjw at y(/ur Ijookstrjrc
KAI>^DOM IIOI SE
THE NEW BOOKS
of the innumerable topics to which
Mr. Toynbee comes with so many
scholarly suppositions is likely to feel
that, comprehensive of the entire
human record as this writer is, he
somehow lacks a sense of the insolu-
ble conflicts and the indescribable
agony that history has been for so
many in our time.
MYSTERIOUS TREASURE
B Y contrast, Hannah Arendt's
Between Past and Future: Six Exer-
cises in Political Thought (Viking,
$5) seems to me a book to tJiink with
through the political impasses and
cultural confusions of our day; I
recommend it heartily to anyone
who wants to read a philosophical
contribution to politics in the grand
style— to politics as a branch of re-
flective literature.
Miss Arendt is an "original," as
the French say, for she is a scholar
who writes with deeply moving per-
sonal urgency about politics in its
classic signification— when it meant
not contest for office or administra-
tion but the public realm in which
alone, through action, man knew
freedom. She begins her new book by
speaking of the disenchantment of
intellectuals in the French Resist-
ance who had briefly and dangerous-
ly enjoyed something like this
political and objective exercise of
freedom. And in a phrase that sums
up the condition that I have been
trying to suggest in these notes on
the writing of history today, she re-
marks that the history of revolutions,
from the summer of 1776 in Phila-
delphia to the autumn of 1956 in
Budapest, forms the tale of an age-
old treasure which appears abruptly
and mysteriously disappears again.
After escaping from thought into
action by way of revolution, modern
man, having acted, now feels himself
forced back into thought alone. This
crippling sense of division within
himself— which in the past seemed
peculiar to the activity of thought,
a property of the mind alone— has
now become a general sense that we
live in the gap between past and fu-
ture. For tradition, the tradition that
man's highest end is in contempla-
tion and rightful action, was ended
by Marx. Marx, as Miss Arendt
sharply paraphrases him, really did
feel that "philo.sophcrs have inter-
preted the world long enough; tl
time has come to change it." As si
says, "Our tradition of politic
thought began when Plato d
covered that it is somehow inhere
in the philosophical experience
turn away from the common wor
of human affairs; it ended whi
nothing was left of this expericn
but the opposition of thinking ai
acting, which, depriving thought
reality and action of sense, mal<
both meaningless."
Miss Arendt's technique in tht
"political exercises" is by referen
to classic values, as these are still ei
bodied in our vocabulary. By tr;
ing key words back to the permane
human interests and insights th
they express, she shows us th
"tradition" is not something
which we can actually return but t
repository of past human awarenf
that is essential to us. The peculi
impressiveness of her book lies in tl
sense of tradition as a resource of t
human spirit, our buried treasure,
it were. And the substance of f
book, as in her previous books
The Origins of Totalitarianism a
T!ie Human Condition, refers to t
peculiar homelessness of a gene
tion cut off first from traditioi
imderstanding of what human beii
may hope to accomplish, and tli
alienated over again, as it were,
this absence of key terms and histoj.
human ideals.
WHAT man has lost today is ab(
all the sense of inhabiting a cc
mon earth, of possessing life
common with all others alive on i
common earth. This sense of hav
lost a common world is what IV
Arendt returns to as the loss of fi
dom. For men are not free in th(
selves alone, free in introspecti
they are free only in this comrr
realm, the classic domain of poli
where men can act. "The field wh
freedom has always been kno'
not as a problem, to be sure, but
a fact of everyday life, is the polit
realm." Freedom is not an attrib
of the will, but an accessory of do
and acting. In our time, of cou
the only quality that so many pec
attribute to freedom is that il
freedom from, private, hidden-
deed, that freedom is perhaps c
the privilege of thinking about f
dom. But as Miss Arendt says, "I^
Ill
BOOKS IN BRIEF
are free— as distinguished from their
possessing the gift for freedom— as
long as they act, neither before nor
after; for to be free and to act are
the same."
There is a beautiful sentence by
D. H. Lawrence that says something
Hke this, from the same profound
source— men are free when they are
in a Hving homehmd, when they are
most unconscious of their freedom.
But today we embrace the term
"freedom" without this reality; we
embrace the term almost because the
reality escapes us. But so little is Miss
Arendt a "traditionalist" in the
academic sense, so clearly can she
point out the essential values we
have been cheated of in modern life,
that in a majestic essay on the shal-
lowness of American education, she
can say with superb and moving
appropriateness— "Education is the
point at which we decide whether
we love the woild enough to assume
responsibility foi' it and by the same
token save it from that ruin which,
excejJt -for renewal, except for the
coming of the new and young, would
be inevitable." A profound book and
I great spirit.
bOOKS
in brief
CATHERINE GAUSS JACKSON
FICTION
lock Without Hands, by Carson
VlcCullers.
In one way Miss McCullers makes
' t easy to describe her book. "It is
ibout response and responsibility—"
;he says, "of man toward his own
jivingness." But isn't that what
ivery serious novel is about? So we
[nust start over again. . . . The four
nain characters in the story, set in
I small Georgia town called Milan,
ire the town druggist; his friend, a
horoughly unreconstructed ex-Con-
. pressman and Judge, chief citizen of
he town; and two boys, one the
grandson of the Judge, the other a
, alented though uneducated blue-
. :yed colored boy. The Judge is in
A great wiiter
throivs fascinating light
on the creative process
•.. and himself
r .*->r... 1
THE STORY OF A NOVEL
THE GENESIS OF Doctor Fanstus
^ "Continuously interesting and absorbing ... it started
out to be the genesis of the magnum opus of Mann's last
years, but it took shape as something broader . . . the
intimate journal of a great man of letters ... a rounded
picture of Mann's life. The translators, Richard and
Clara Winston, have done an admirable job."
- Charles Rolo in The AtJamk
$1^.00 at better bookstores evei'yivhei'e
ALFRED • A • KNOPF ^'^ Publisher of Borzoi Booh
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• Scores of unique global views based on
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# Spectacular photographs, carefully selected
fi'om life's fabulous collection, portray the
earth's wonders and man's influence.
• 75,000-entry Index. Final 1960 census fig-
ures for every place of 1,000 or moi-e in the
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BOOKS IN BRIEF
constant rebellion against his son's
suicide some eighteen years before;
against the state of his health; and
against the federal government in
Washington. Malone, the druggist,
has just— as the book opens— learned
that he is dying of leukemia. The
relationship between the two boys is
ambiguous even to themselves but
their conversation as they try to im-
press each other provides whatever
comic relief there is in the book. But
it isn't a funny book; it isn't meant
to be.
The helpless loneliness of the
druggist facing death and wondering
what became of his life; the exas-
peration of the old Judge as he sees
his way of life disappearing; the
grandson's anguished puzzlement
over his father's suicide; and the
suicidal gesture which the Negro boy
makes because he doesn't know who
he is, weave the pattern of this slow-
moving yet tightly knit Southern
novel. The inexorably approaching
death of the druggist, "the clock
without hands," is the quietly ticking
timetable which gives heightened
tension and drama to all else that
occurs. The novel is not for every-
body, but it is surely about response
and responsibility.
Houghton Mifflin, $3.75
When My Girl Comes Home, by V.S.
Pritchett.
A short story by Mr. Pritchett tells
more about life— often terrifyingly
more about life— than most full-
length novels. And takes the reader
through a whole cycle of emotional
reactions, curiosity, recognition,
amusement, surprise, and even when,
as often, horror and dismay are
added, one comes finally to satisfac-
tion at the end because yes, that's the
way it had to be. . . . Here are nine
stories, odd and wonderful all. The
first, the title story, is almost a
novella. A girl from London's dreary
and middle-class Hincham Street
who had married a Japanese and
was trapped in the Far East durincj
the war comes home at last to her
relatives. She had, in a way, been the
focus of their war-encircled lives for
so many years that now when she
had finally come home she was, for
certain remarkable reasons, "far more
remote to us than she had been all
the years when she was away."
! hrxigh Ml. PiiKhcii reveals Iiis
stories slowly in a kind of shorthand
of gestures and homely actions or
observations— in the enumeration of
baggage here, in the way a man looks
at a wheelbarrow there— and nothing
is quickly given away— there is never
anything slow or obscure in the
narrative. Indeed vivacity and vital-
ity are at the heart of it always.
Knopf, St
i
Franny and Zooey, by J.D. Salinger,
Salinger had an eager audience by
the time Franny came out in The
New Yorker in 1955. The CatcJier in
the Rye and Nine Stories had a
roused critics and English professor
and casual best-seller readers, but no-
where was the thirst for more Salin-
ger greater than among college
students, and of course Franny wa
their story, even more than th
others had been. It was talked abou
on campuses for months afterward.
It was debated hotly; there were arti-
cles in the school newspapers and
subsequent letters from the readers.
Above all it was gossiped about— the
insensitive young men saying that
Franny must have been pregnant-
nobody passes out from any old
spiritual experience— and the furious
girls saying that they had missed the
whole point.
Zooey appeared two years later in
The New Yorker. It was less empiri-
cal than Franny. There was more of
Salinger (or his "alter ego and col-
laborator Buddy Glass") to explain
things. (Franny wasn't pregnant. She
was simply having a "tenth-rate nerv-
ous breakdown.") Zooey, Franny's
actor-brother, was just as weary, even
more cynical than Franny, but he
was a few years older and less tor-
tured by adolescent despair.
This book contains both stories
and an introductory note to Zooey
by the author. Salinger is an instinc-
tive, effortless storyteller, who is
most natural when he lets his char-
acters speak for themselves. Certain-
ly, the dialogue is splendid, honest,
realer than real. When Salinger, the
author, intrudes into his stories, even
slightly or whimsically as in the in-
iioduction to Zooey, the writing
becomes stagy and unattractive. Eo:-
tunately, for the most part, he seems
to enjoy remaining detached, and his
wiiting is narrative art in j)ure and
glowing form.
Little, Blown, .^l
113
What can I believe?
How should I live?
What do I hope ?
WALTER KAUFMANN
a modern philosopher, addresses
himself to the fundamental ques-
tions of central concern to thinking
men everywhere
in
THE
FAITH
OFA
HEBETIC
Like his controversial Harper's article of ttie
same title, this book presents the author's
quest for honesty and his objections to
theology and organized religion. Far more
than an expansion of the article, this is
an altogether new book - dealing at length
with many topics not previously touched on.
431 pages, $4.95 at all booksellers
DOUBLEDAY
$14,000 A YEAR
. . . NOW I AM
REALLY LIVING!
By a Wall Street Journal
Subscriber
A few years ago I was going broke on
$9,000 a year. High prices and taxes were
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money or reduce my standard of living.
So I sent for a Trial Subscription to
The Wall Street Journal. I heeded its
warnings. I cashed in on the ideas it gave
me for increasing my income and cutting
expenses. I got the money I needed. And
then I began to forge ahead. Last year
my income was up to $14,000. Believe
me, reading The Journal every day is a
wonderful get-ahead plan. Now I am
really Hving!
This story is typical. The Journal is
a wonderful aid to men making $7,500
to $25,000 a year. To assure speedy de-
livery to you anywhere in the U.S., The
Journal is printed daily in seven cities
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The Wall Street Journal has the largest
staff of writers on business and finance.
It costs $24 a year, but in order to ac-
quaint you with The Journal, we make
this offer: You can get a Trial Subscrip-
tion for 3 months for $7. Just send this
ad with check for $7. Or tell us to bill you.
Address: The Wall Street Journal, 44
Broad St., New York 4, N.Y. HM-iO
BOOKS IN BRIEF
NON-FICTION
Kidnap: The Story of the Lindbergh
Case, by George Waller.
The very enormity of the crime—
the kidnaping and murder of the
yoimg son and namesake of a na-
tional hero— makes it, of course, of
consuming interest. The author tells
many (up-till-now) unpublicized de-
tails of the long and relentless search
for the abductor or abductors; the
stories behind the heartbreaking
false clues; the works of the police,
both good and bad; above all, the
work of the wood expert whose tire-
less efforts tracked down (at least so
he believed) the very shijMnent of
wood from which the ladder came
from Georgia to its destination in
the Bronx; the work of the psy-
chiatrist who with only the few
ransom notes and Dr. Condon's
testimony to go on not only recon-
structed the nationality and approxi-
mate age, temperament, and physical
looks of the criminal but also pinned
down to an area of about one square
mile of inhabited country in the
Williamsbridge section of the Bronx,
the place where he believed the
authorities woidd find that he lived.
Mr. Waller tells of the slow and for
so long imrewarding \vork in track-
ing down the ransom bills; he re-
creates the ghastly atmosphere of the
courtroom and the trial and the
question as to whether under the
circumstances justice was or was not
done.
All this, of course, makes the most
absorbing reading, and the author
has done a masterful and painstaking
job of research and honest, quiet re-
porting. The facts themselves make
the drama and there is no attempt at
sensationalism. But the book has al-
ready made sensational news in the
ptiblishing world. It is Book of tlie
Month for September; it has been
chosen for condensation by the
Reader's Digest; and it will have, one
guesses, about as wide a distribution
as a book can have. I don't know
clearly what the rights and wrongs
of this may be. Perhaps "the public
has a right to the facts" all over
again. But one thing that comes
clearly from the book is the torture
by publicity that the Lindberghs en-
dured at the time of the crime and
the trial. It seems almost inhuman to
Good English a
must for success
in high school
and college!
start the school year right
with this Merriam-Webster!
Today's high school and college
students are up against the severest
competition of all time.
To do well in high school — to succeed
in college — good English is the key.
You must be able to talk and write eflfec'
lively, accurately.
This ability develops quickly with reg-
ular use of a personal copy of Webster's
New Collegiate: the Merriam-Webster
dictionary required or recommended at
schools and colleges everywhere.
"With Merriam-Webster," teachers
say, "you know you're right. Its defini-
tions are complete, accurate, up to date.
It is an essential aid to good English,"
Start the school year right with a
Merriam-Webster. $5 plain, $6 indexed,
at department, book, stationery stores,
©G.&C.MerriamCo.,Springfield2,Mass.
INSIST ON
MERRIAM-^VEBSTER
Don't be misled. Other "Websters" do
not include the scientific names for plants
and animals. Nor the rules for spelling
and punctuation essential in a dictionary
for school, home, or office use. Ask today
for a Af err/am- Webster.
The story of
a burning,
passionate,
highly individual
woman
fire
in tlf Iff
The starkly splendid world
of tenth-century Iceland re-
sounds with the clash of
weapons and the cries of
bitter hatred that follow
Hallgerda of the long hair.
This fascinating woman, with
her longing for real life, is
directly responsible for un-
told battles and murders.
But the deep yearnings that
lead to the fearful climax of
her life will be understood
by all who have ever sought
their own horizons.
This startling re-creation of
The Burning of N/al is a rare
opportunity for total immer-
sion in another time and
place — the wild and awe-
some place of Thor and Odin.
fm
in t|f ice
By Dorothy James
Roberts author of
THE ENCHANTED CUP and
LAUNCELOT.MY BROTHER
$5.00 at all bookstores
Little, Brown
and Company
BOOKS IN BRIEF
think that now thirty years later they
—who did not choose their parts in
the tragedy— and their other children
must go through the pain and espe-
cially the publicity all over again:
torture by book.
Dial, $6.95
Van Gogh: A Self-Portrait. Letters
Revealing His Life as a Painter,
selected by W. H. Auden.
Mr. Auden has chosen from that
magnificent but prohibitively expen-
sive three-volume collection of Van
Gogh's letters edited by Vincent W.
Van Gogh and published a few years
ago only those letters which reveal
his life as a painter. Even so, it is a
400-page volume illustrated with
twenty-seven of his drawings and
eight tipped-in color plates of paint-
ings exemplifying his various per-
iods. The painter's nephew, son of
"Theo" to whom so many of the
letters are addressed, has written a
biographical sketch as a background
for the letters and all in all it is a
most illuminating and affecting
documentation of the life of a tragic
and passionate genius. . . . One para-
graph from a letter to Theo In May
1882 will give the temper of his
tortured and dedicated struggle:
"Mauve takes offense at my having
said, 'I am an artist'— which I won't
take back because, of course, these
words connote 'Always seeking with-
out absolutely finding.' It is just the
opposite of saying, 'I know, I have
found etc' ... As far as I know, that
word means, 'I am seeking, I am
striving, I am in it with all my
heart.' "
N. Y. Graphic Society, $10
The Will Rogers Book, compiled by
Paula McSpadden Love.
The only trouble with reading a
book of Will Rogers' "Sayings" with
the idea of writing something about
it is that you want to quote the
whole book. Or else you Lave to go
out and find somebody to read it to.
Whether he is talking about Presi-
dents:
Presidents become great, but they
have to he made Presidents first.
(VVishirigton] was the most versatile
President we ever had. He was a
larmer, civil engineer, and ;i gentle-
man. He made crK)ugh at (ivil en-
gineering to iruhilge in l)oth oilier
litxm les.
Papers today say, "What woulc
Lincoln do today?" Well, in th(
first place he wouldent chop an;
wood, he would trade his ax in oi
a Ford. Being a Republican he woulc
vote the Democratic ticket. Being ii
sympathy for the underdog he woul(
be classed as a radical progressive
Having a sense of humor he woul(
be called an eccentric.
Here comes Coolidge and does noth
ing and retires a hero, not only be
cause he hadent done anything, bu
because he had done it better thai
anyone.
An awful lot of folks are predictin
Roosevelt's downfall, not only pn
dieting but praying. We are a funn
people. We elect our Presidents, b
they Republican or Democrat, the:
go home and start daring 'em t
make good.
Or Education:
Everybody is ignorant only on di
ferent subjects.
Or Travel:
Nothing thickens one like travel.
If you have never written an auti
biography, you havent signed a fo
eign hotel register.
It's pronounced Neece. Not Nic
They have no word for nice
French.
The collection, interspersed wi
short biographical notes and mai
pictures, is compiled by Will Roge
niece, now curator of the W
Rogers Memorial in Claremo
Oklahoma.
Bobbs-Merrill, $3
Last Things First, by Sidney J. H
ris.
This is another collection of wi
commentary, selected by the autl
from the columns which he does 1
days a week for the Chicago D(
News. This means, alas, that exc
for a short section of "Purely I
sonal Prejudices" in the back, n
of his observations are too long
quote. But when one reminds
reader that Mr. Harris is the aut
of another collection of earl
columns called Majority of C
which reviewers compared to Cha
Lamb, to H. L. Mencken, to 0||^
Wilde, it is obvious that here at v
is a witty and discerning mind. JfJ
though his columns could be qujL
*
k.
115
A remembrance
of 30 years of American
literary life
FROM THE
SHADOW OF
THE MOUNTAIN
Vly Post-Meridian Years
This last of three autobiographi-
cal volumes is more than the per-
sonal story of an eminent literary
figure. It is a chronicle of Amer-
ica's literary heritage and the
men, many of them Brooks' close
friends, who helped to shape it —
from Henry James to Heming-
way, Emerson to Eliot.
■■n| $4.50 at all bookstores
ly DUTTON
9nfn)pi!R<
w*<(«nwpn«i«mi^ni<i«i"*<qnp|q
The fascinating story
of medical quackery
and the colorful
figures it enriched . . .
THE
TOADSTOOL
MILLIONAIRES
A Social History of
Patent Medicines in America
before Federal Regulation
^y James Harvey Young \
$6.00 at all bookstores
Princeton University Press
Princeton, New Jei-sey
BOOKS IN BRIEF
in part, for they are full of aphor-
isms and pithy bits of philosophy,
they are in entirety so neatly con-
structed that much of the pleasure
comes in following the thought to
the end.
But as a final comment, which does
not at all ajjply to his book, let me
give one brief quote which sliould
delight the heart of any book re-
viewer or reader thereof: "The best
one- word critique of a new book I
have heard was expressed by a friend
of mine some time ago: 'Under-
whelming.' "
Houghton Mifflin, SI
FORECAST
yack-potpourri.
The publishers' lists for fall and
early next sj^ring are dotted with
titles and aiuhors that are bound lo
make a s})lash, some in the best-sellci
columns, some in the critical, some
in both. There is Norman Vincent
Peale's The Tough-Minded Opti-
inisl, coming from Prcn tire-Hall:
MacKinlay Kantor's huge .S'/?/)//
Lake, from World. Simon & Schuster
are publishing Alexander King's /
Should Have Kissed Her More and
Viking announces A Marianne Moorr
Reader. Doubleday is heraldin T'!\-
lor Caldwell's A Prologue to Love
and Ilka Chase's autobiography
with an Edna St. Vincent .Mill in
title, TJie Carthaginian Rose; and
Little, Brown is brin-^ing out a biog-
rajihy of Clark Gable by the woman
who was his secretary for twenty
years, "Dear Mr. G—," by Jean Gar-
ceau with Inez C(>ckc
The Book of the Month h;is I
chosen for October Sinelair Lewis:
An American Life, by Mark Schorer
(McGraw-Hill), an I for November
Volume I of Bruce Catton's monu-
mental Centennial History of the
Cixiil War, this or called The Com-
ing Fury (Doubleday).
The spring of 1962 already looks
lively too, with Fran^oise Sagan's
new novel, Tlie JVonderf^l Clouds,
coming from Button, and Katherine
Anne Porter's new-old and much-
heralded and looked-for r n'el, Ship
of Fools, scheduled at last by the
Atlantic Monthly Press in aosociation
with Little, Brown. Readers will re-
member that sections of the ^^ook
appeared in Harper's.
JOHN DAY jOHMJPAY
The ?atK
By MIGUEL
DELIBES
C
This superb novel of a Spanish
village glows "with tenderness
and warmth . . . Miguel Delibes
writes vividly, with humor and
perception and great narrative
power."
— Kamala Markandaya. $3.00
FOURTEEN
STORIES
A selection of a great writer's
finest stories on a variety of
dramatic themes, from 1943 to
the present. None has ever be-
fore appeared in book form,
and four are published for the
first time anywhere. $4.00
TKe
HOLLOW
CROWN
A Liie or «/,^
RicLarcl II
By HAROLD F. W^^
HUTCHISON
A magnificent biography of a
maligned king, Richard II
(1367-1400), not the neurotic
of Shakespeare's play but a
highly attractive figure. "A rich
and colorful picture."— Virginia
KiRKUS. Illustrated. $5.00
Don't miss OCOSW^
Robert Lund's fact-based novel
of a eafaring Elizabethan m
5apan. "Sw.ft and dramat c^^
-Chicago Tribune. ^
At all bookstores
THE JOHN DAY COMPANY, New York 16
116
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to politics. Enter your subscription now
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■
The Chani'mi American Scene
Alfred Kazin, Richard Rovere, Benjamin
DeMott, William V. Shannon, Richard Hof-
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and others examine important aspects of
the changing scene. You will find Harry
S. Ashmore writing on the racial problem,
U.S. Representative John Brademas dis-
cussing the role of the politician, Kenneth
Fiester assessing the future of the labor
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Outstanding books of the last thirty years
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Bartok's powerful prewar quartets
still sound uncompromising and new —
and may he the greatest contribution
to the form since Beethoven.
Bela Bartok, who died in 1945,
was a small, quiet and intro-
verted man who composed some of
the most vicious, powerful music
of all time. The word vicious is
used advisedly. In the music of
Bartok's middle period there often
is a snarling, biting sound, ex-
pressed in a medium of extreme
dissonance and rhythmic savagery.
Like so many composers, he went
through three broad periods. The
first is neo-Lisztian, in which Hun-
garian folk elements are expressed
in a more or less orthodox manner.
The second period (roughly, in the
1920s) is one of dissonance, com-
plexity, and intensity. The third,
represented by music composed dur-
ing the last few years of his life, is
quieter, more traditional, and quite
melodic.
But from beginning to end, Bar-
tok was a nationalist. For the most
part his nationalism is not the obvi-
ous kind as expressed in the Liszt
rhapsodies. He seldom quoted folk
melodies. What is ever-present in
his music, as one becomes familiar
with the idiom, is an unself-con-
scious use of various folk formulas
—melodic fragments, rhythmic de-
vices, and modal-sounding scales
that weave their way into the very
structure of his music. He was a
nationalist in the Mussorgsky-
Dvorak-Smetana sense; but unlike
them he dealt with a language that
really was an wr-language: a type of
response that touches something
I)rimal.
His six String Quartets have re-
cently been recorded by the Ramor
Ouariet (Vox VBX 19, mono only,
?) discs). The nationalistic clement
I
* 'I
i
in these quartets is not as pre
nounced as in some other worki
and to the casual listener it ma
pass unnoticed. But to those fami
iar with Bartok, it plays a stroni
part in the composition. Man
qualified scholars have gone o
record calling these works, whic
were composed between 1908 an
1939, the greatest contribution t
the form since Beethoven. And, lil<
the last Beethoven quartets, the
pose some knotty problems.
Bartok was an avant-garde con
poser, constantly experimentin'
and going his own way. Yet \
managed to avoid eclecticisr
When he heard Henry Cowell
tone clusters, for instance, he w
fascinated with them; but he end(
up using them in a way peculiar
his own. As early as the Quartet N
1 he had found a completely inc
vidual style, and he owed little *
anybody. The great figures of tl
period he studied with interest; ai
yet there is in his own music i
Schonberg, no Stravinsky, no Prok
fieff or Debussy. And, despite t'(
apparent complexity of so much
his writing, the emotional message
direct. Not only direct, but simp]
B!
ill
13
i
IJfK
!.l01
1 1
\
'|«arie
I'.
Few Would Dare
Nevertheless it can be diffici
listening. Bartok was an unco
promising composer, and his tor|l
combinations can assault the ear. 1
also was apt to use instruments in
unconventional manner. Th
strange glissando effects in i
Fourth Quartet still sound no\
(One reason is that they are so \
usual, and so personal with Bart
that very few composers have daill
imitate them.) The first two qu
lets represent him feeling his wk
and they are the most conventio|l
of the six. The others provide a fi|(
day for the analyst, for perform jg
musicians, and for the music lo^|.
Each is different, and yet the
117
:)ur quartets have the same kind of
schnical and emotional unity found
n the last five Beethoven quartets.
It cannot be repeated too often
'lat Bartok's message takes time to
nfold. It cannot be approached
^ith the standards of the nineteenth
entury in mind; and it could be
hat a certain type of mind will
ever respond to Bartok's music. But
t is music that all intelligent listen-
rs certainly should make the effort
:i understand. For (as with all great
nisic) the effect that one gets out of
is proportionate to the effort one
uts in.
The new recording by the Ramor
Kiartet, a Hungarian group, has
lany things in its favor. That in-
ludcs price. Vox has packed the
hree discs of the six quartets into its
)w-price(l series (three discs for
7.98). The recorded sound is clear.
LS for the performances, they are
pchnically adroit, with first-class, ac-
Mrate intonation, and strength of
onccption. About the only reserva-
on one might raise about the play-
g is a tendency to fall into a
iionotonous dynamic layout. That
I, long stretches of mezzo-forte play-
iig with little variation. But this
oes not happen too often. This al-
rum is a superior buy of very su-
erior music.
Ihe Pulitzer Piece
! Two other important pieces of
pntemporary chamber music are
illiott Carter's Quartet No. 2 and
William Schuman's Quartet No. 3,
oth recorded by the Juilliard String
)uartet (Victor LM 2481, mono;
SC 2481, stereo). Schuman com-
osed his work in 1939. Carter's is
etter known. Composed in 1959, it
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118
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MUSIC IN THE ROUND
won a Pulitzer Prize and the New-
York Music Critic Circle award for
1961.
Carter's previous string quartet,
composed about ten years ago, made
an enormous impact at that time. It
was long, complicated, avoided
superficial prettiness, and provided a
model for all serious, industrious
American composers to follow. Many
of them did. The new Second Quar-
tet is somewhat shorter, but it has
the same kind of Bartokian power
and intensity, pUis the same kind of
difficidt writing and rhythmic flair.
Carter is no mere imitator of Bartok,
but of all composers he seems to owe
most to the Hungarian. Carter,
again like Bartok, is uncompromis-
ing in his demands. He does not
make it easy for the listener. He
fortunately has enough strength,
personality, and resource to keep his
music from being nothing but a
mass of dissonance. A certain sharp-
ness and flair, a certain individual-
ity, mark his writing. The Second
Quartet is an unusually fine piece of
music.
Separating the Players
The recording is interesting also
as a stereo demonstration. Carter
has asked that the players separate
more widely on stage than is custom-
ary; he considers it integral to the
music. This makes for a perfect
stereo approach, and the Victor engi-
neers have gleefully fallen in line,
creating stereophonic separation ef-
fects that are not normally associated
with string quartet writing.
Bartok plays a part in the Schu-
man quartet too. Again there is the
kind of slashing, biting rhythmic at-
tack that the Hungarian composer
introduced to music. But Schuman
in this work is quite genial about it
all. It is more "American" than the
Carter work. Its Americanism is hard
to pin down in words, but it is
there: vigorous, brash, breezy, full of
optimistic bounce. And also confi-
dent. It is on the whole a quite
attractive piece of music, fully de-
serving of a place in the contemjx)-
rary repertoire, especially in this
kind erf brilliant performance by the
gidcd players who make up the
Juilliard String Quartet. In con-
temporary music there probably is
not an ensemble in the world that
can apj)roach them.
JAZZ
Eric Larrabee
notes
SOME STEREO
AS I N the early days of hi-fi, Avitli
stereo you still do not always know
what you are getting. The home phono-
graphs vary tremendously, from the best
(and best situated for the "depth" il-
lusion) to portable machines that qualify
chiefly by virtue of having two loud-
speakers. The records vary, too, both in
degree of separation between the two
channels, and the degree to which the
same is intelligently related to the music.
Those noted below are meant to be
representative of stereo's use, where pos-
sil)le successfully, in jazz.
For the sound engineers, of course,
the temptation is to play with this new
toy, simply to see what it can do. An
example, albeit a good one, is the ^Var-
Avick "Sold of Jazz Percussion." in ^vhith |
the effects of three channels and a fif-
teen-microphone intermixing panel are .
so complicated that the liner notes have "
to give a running account of which
musician is now supposed to be where.
Percussion particularly profits from a
spatial effect, and so in a similar way 4
does "experimental" music like George
Russell's "Jazz in the Space Age," where i
a certain eerie atmosphere probably i
helps make innovation more accessible
than it might otherwise be. Atmosphere. J
again— in this case, that of a Palm ]
Springs club date— adds to Charlie Bar- j
net's "Jazz Oasis," by giving his some- ]|
Avhat old-fashioned sound a quality of
night-club platform blast.
But to my ear the best results come
from the small ensembles— an octet like
Dave Pell's, a quartet like Buddy de
Franco's, or even a trio like Bernard
Peiffer's. Perhaps this is simply a logical
continuation of hi-fi's encouragement to
chamber music of all kinds; perhaps it
is a consequence of the greater dis-
crimination between instruments pos-
sible in a small group, of the ear's relish
of tonal flavors sharp enough to accentu-i
ate one another. Here, at any rate, I
am ruefully and Ijelatedly compelled tc
grant stereo some of that strange powet
that hi-fi had when it was first arriving-
the power to make soimds new again.
The Soul of Jazz Percussion. Warwick
\V 5003 ST. Jazz in the Space Age.
George Russell, with Bill Evans. Decca
DL 79219. Jazz Oasis. The Charlie
Barnct Quartet. Capitol ST 1403. The
Old South Wails. Dave Pell Octet. Capi-
tol ST 1512. Pacific Standard (Swingin!!
Time. Buddy de Franco-Tommy Gu
miiia Quartet. Decca DI, 71031. Th«
Pied Pciller. Decca DL 79218.
OLLEGE SCENE
TABLE OF CONTENTS
;^^<.t<i ^^^.^^^1. ^<.- 1!> ®4v^^€;
e Next Thirty Years in the Colleges
c: The Problem Colleges Evade
e Young Negro Rebels
ler Swarthmore
e Wasted Classroom
e Examination: A Poem
e Mirage of College Politics
tes on Polish Student Life
ie New Campus Magazines
d in the Colleges
ance What Comes: A Poem
hat They'll Die for in Houston
lotographs of the Eastern Colleges
awings
Christopher lencks
Milton I. Levine, M.D.,
and Maya Pines
Charlotte Devree
David Boroff
Nathan Glazer
W. D. Snodgrass
Philip Rieff
Reuel K. Wilson
Richard Chase
Michael Novak
Christopher Z. Hobson
Marjorie K. McCorquodale
David Attie
Norma-Jean Koplin
121
129
133
139
147
154
156
164
168
173
177
179
-i^r^^ #^!x^..c^t ^^%^t^
^■■■■■■■■■■iMi^i ■iiiiMininiii|Bi»jiniiarM*^iTMJfHI7W<MH«iattt4a^aBaB
FOREWORD : The future, we are told, rests with the young people in our colleges. But what is
really going on in the colleges?
More than half of the students who enter college drop out before graduation. Those who
do graduate are often uneducated. Their instructors, in fact, have few incentives to become
good teachers: they are not rewarded if they do, or punished if they dont. All the existing
rewards and punishments urge them instead to produce "research"' and "scholarly publications."
The result is an avalanche of books and papers which are, in the words of one foundation
executive, often "worthless or at least of questionable value."
Yet we are told that during the next generation ive shall have to double our national
investment in this kind of education, at a cost of some $20 billion.
In this supplement, scholars, teachers, and critics try to probe beneath the surface of
an ailing college system which seems afraid to face itself: What kind of education are our
young people actually getting? . . . How well does it prepare them to cope with a world in
upheaval— or to become mature and responsible adults? . . . How do they feel about religion, sex,
politics, their own future? . . . What changes seem desirable for unavoidable) in the college
life of the coming generation?
Some of the answers ofjered by our contributors are hopeful, some alarming, many
unexpected. In a few areas— student politics for example— they differ sharply. In no case
do ihey pretend to have the final answers, nor do they try to cover all the controversial
issues in American higher education. What iJiey do attempt is to begin an exploration, at
least, of some urgent questions which have been too long evaded. — The Editors
i
i\
THE NEXT THIRTY YEARS
IN THE COLLEGES
Universal college education has already be-
come inevitable in America— although it
probably will not be accepted tor another genera-
tion.
• In 1900 the average American left school
when he was twelve and had finished elementary
school.
• By 1930 his children knew that they needed
to stay in school until they reached about fifteen
if they were to get the kinds of jobs they wanted.
• In 1960 four young people out of five took
a high-school diploma, two out of five were en-
rolling in college, one in five was actually earning
a B.A., and one in twenty was going on for a
graduate degree as well. The average age for
starting work had risen to eighteen.
• By 1990 automation will have installed a
higher proportion of the population in white-
collar jobs, and built-in unemployment will prob-
ably assure that anyone competing for such a job
will need to claim some sort of college experience.
The average age for starting work will almost
certainly have risen to twenty-one, and people
seeking top professional and administrative jobs
will have to stay in graduate school well beyond
this age.
This apparently unlimited extension of lei-
surely adolescence is a peculiarly American phe-
nomenon. No other society has shared America's
collective conviction that even dimwits grow up
more healthily when doing make-work in the
classroom than when doing "real" work in an
office or factory; and few have accepted our faith
•hat convivial collegiate life brings young people
to fuller maturity than the tedium of nine-to-five
routines. Even the English, with their Oxbridge
vadition of aristocratic indolence, provide the
majority of young people with very little time
to waste. Most English young people are forced
CHRISTOPHER JENCKS
Before long nearly everybody will "go to college"
but what sort of education will they get?
Christopher Jencks' surprising — and troubling —
answers grew out of a survey he made of many
schools across the country while working with
David Riesman. A graduate of Harvard's College
(1958) and School of Education, Mr. Jencks is
now associate editor of "The New Republic.**
to work quite hard, and are normally ready for
their chosen job two or three years younger than
they would be in America. Other industrial na-
tions allocate more leisure to their young than
England, but none is so generous a-s America.
Why do we do it? If education were merely a
matter of shrewd and productive investment in
human resources— as some argue— most women
would be kept in school only long enough to ac-
quire a taste for dish washers and self-service
shopping centers. The fact that they aren't sug-
gests that many American parents have noneco-
nomic reasons for educating their children so
long. They seem to want to assure their children
a certain kind of life, and until the child has
safely navigated the dangerous backwaters of late
adolescence, such a life remains inaccessible. The
teacher whose eighteen-year-old daughter wants
to marry a garage mechanic, the doctor whose
son has earned his high-school diploma and wants
to become a beatnik poet in Rome, and the ac-
countant whose newly-free children show signs
of grabbing the quick money and closed future
available to stenographers or steel workers— all
see college as a promising form of child therapy.
Such parents may not have much enthusiasm for
the eccentric scholarly ideals of their children's
more erudite instructors; they may even be some-
what suspicious of the odd friends their children
acquire in college. But they still prefer fraternity
beer parties and coeducational cram sessions to
street-corner society or early marriage or military
service, which are usually the alternatives.
Thus our American romanticism about "col-
lege life" dooms in advance all proposals to ra-
122
tionalize higlier education by confining it to
"suitable" students. Of course some of these pro-
posals deserve short shrift. In many cases "suit-
able" is merely a euphemism for "intellectual" or
"bright." The advocates of such plans would
emulate the Europeans by confining higher ed-
ucation to those who have already demonstrated
their academic gifts. Yet research has repeatedly
shown that great numbers— perhaps a majority—
of the most talented young people show very
little scholastic promise while still in high school.
Hence if every American college accepted the
definitions of suitability which govern admission
to Yale, Caltech, or Bryn Mawr, a very substantial
proportion of our country's intellectual man-
power would go down the drain.
Rut some definitions of suitability for higher
education might prove more defensible. Looking
at the superior records of students who marry
or do military service before graduation, or
otherw^ise prove to themselves and others that
they are grown-up, a psychologist might well con-
clude that late adolescence is not tlie most suit-
able time to attend a good college or university.
Instead, he might reasonably suggest that high-
school graduates should first marry and work at
a regular job; then they might well be suffi-
ciently mature for serious higher education or
professional training or at least for a stimulating
holiday. Such a scheme would not only assure
scholarly lecturers of the serious audience they
deserve, but would assure students an opportun-
ity to taste adult life and responsibilities before
committing themselves to a particuhir line of
work or style of living. But so long as America
makes competition for top jobs into a waiting
game in which the spoils go to the most patient—
those who stay unemployed until they have ac-
quired a full portfolio of degrees— no change in
educational chronology will ever be tried. (A re-
vised sequence of work and school would also re-
(juire a greater fiscal investment in education,
;ind might not yield sufficiently higher returns.)
The next thirty years, then, will probably
bring about a society in which most of our chil-
dren will enroll in college. And with what result?
\V^ill the colleges be organized so that young
jjeople can benefit from the more leisurely pace
at which they will be allowed to grow up? Will
tliey entourage the students to try out new skills
and new self-portraits without suffering seriously
lor I heir inevitable miscalculations-and will this
policy really produce alumni who are more ex-
fK-rimental and more imaginative than those
people who have sjjcnt late adolescence pushing
I>apers or shoveling coal? Will the colleges really
offer young people any understanding of the
world in which they themselves will live, or will
they be taught only about the world of their pro-
fessors?
THE IDEAL FRESHMAN
In an effort to answer some of these questions
I began working with David Riesman early in
1959 on an unsystematic study of several New
England colleges, especially Harvard. Subse-
quently, I visited about a dozen institutions
around the country: Catholic, Protestant, and
secular; Yankee, Negro, and Irish; Eastern, Mid-
western, and Californian; residential and com-
muter; public and private; male and female;
traditional and experimental; land-grant and
teachers' colleges. I have also studied the news-
papers and publicity of many other institutions
and talked with their migrant professors, alumni,
and occasionally undergraduates. Such experi-
ence is far from cdlnprehensive. I know very
little, for example, about the South, and not
much more about the smaller Midwestern schools,
especially the sectarian variety. Nevertheless,
speculation about the future can hardly wait
until the present is fully understood.
From my observation, the great dividing line
among undergraduates separates those seeking
what I will call "a college education" from those
seeking "a university education." A college ed-
ucation is a four-year affair, leading from high
school into a year or two of near-remedial gen-
eral education, through a couple of years of
semiprofessional training, and culminating in
a B.A. and a respectable middle-class job. A
university education, by contrast, begins with
four years of largely general education, leads
through two to five years of graduate professional
training, and may culminate in an M.D., LL.B.,
Ph.D., etc., and an influential upper-middle-class
or upper-class career. Both these sequences in-
volve spending four years at a place called a
college, both lead to a bachelor's degree, and in
the early stages at least there may be a good deal
of migration between them.
Nevertheless, I think one can see that most
college curriculums either lead naturally to grad-
uate school, or else lead naturally to a job. In-
dividual students may rebel against these natural
tendencies, but that does not alter their existence.
Young engineers often decide that their B.S. is
not enough, but enrolling in graduate school
does not alter the terminal character of their
undergraduate work. Conversely, young his-
loiijiiis may decide after earning their B.A. that
123
the management-training program at A. T. 8c T.
promises a more interesting life than, say, Mich-
igan's history department, but this common de-
cision does not alter the probability that their
undergraduate work in history was organized as
a prelude to further graduate training.
The crucial differences between these two
styles of education can be illustrated by examin-
ing two patterns of education I know fairly
well: the "Ivy League" pattern of university
education typified in Harvard and the California
pattern of college education typified in its State
Colleges.
A Harvard education today falls into two
parts: first there is a four-year apprenticeship to
some humane or scientific discipline; second,
there are from two to four years of graduate pro-
fessional work in business, law, medicine, archi-
tecture, physics, philosophy, or whatever. Not
all this work is normally done at Harvard, but
even when part of the work is done elsewhere, the
scc|iicMue remains the same. Only a minority of
Harvard B.A.s attend Harvard graduate schools,
but four out of five go to graduate school some-
where. Furthermore, most of these other graduate
schools differ from Harvard only in prestige,
railu'i than in their essential purposes or pro-
grams. Similarly, while Harvard's graduate
schools recruit only a minority of their students
from Harvard College, almost all the others come
from comparable liberal-arts colleges, staffed by
Harvard Ph.D.s or their ilk, and committed to
the proposition that the B.A. is merely the be-
ginning of higher education, not the conclusion.
Some of these colleges are administratively as-
sociated with universities, and some are inde-
pendent; but all are linked to the universities
by patronage and ideology. Together, they
number perhaps one hundred, and taken along
with about two dozen graduate schools, they
constitute a largely self-contained American uni-
versity system. More than two thousand other
accredited and unaccredited institutions are
marginally attached to this system, but if they all
went out of business tomorrow the system would
survive intact for at least the immediate future.
The kind of education offered by any uni-
versity, including Harvard, is shaped by the fact
that the professors are professional scholars and
scientists. By "professional" I mean that their
self-respect depends more on their standing
with fellow experts throughout the world
than on their standing with administrators,
students, or other local "clients." The Harvard
professor is primarily a writer for an informed
international audience, not a lecturer for an
ignorant adolescent audience. Indeed, a Harvard
professor's whole experience encourages the as-
sumption that research is his vocation, and teach-
ing merely a time-consuming sideline. Most
professors have had elaborate technical training
in the "methodology" of research, but few would
ever think there could be such a thing as "meth-
odology" in teaching. In the less scientific fields,
graduate students often must teach to support
their struggle toward a Ph.D., but no graduate
school in the country treats this classroom ap-
prenticeship half so seriously as the apprentice-
ship in library or laboratory. In fact, hardly any
organized effort is made to improve the art of
teaching, or to discover books or experiences
which will arouse undergraduate curiosity. To
establish standards of teaching excellence would
be regarded as an invasion of the privacy of the
classroom, which at Harvard is almost as sacred
as the bedroom.
In practice, if not always in intention, under-
graduate instruction at great universities like
Harvard is primarily a device for training— or
sim{)ly recruiting— academicians. If the freshman
is to justify the money and energy expended on
him, many facidty members assume that he must
become an amateur chemist, economist, phil-
osopher, or the like. If he is "really talented,"
moreover, he is expected to go on to a Ph.D.
and a research career. Professors often seem to
judge their own undergraduate programs by the
number of graduates who undertake doctorates.
As the former dean succinctly put it, "Our ideal
freshman is somebody whom we would appoint
to the faculty the day he enrolled."
Some undergraduate instructors are more con-
scious of this attitude than others. Ask a chemist
what value his courses have for future lawyers,
and unless he is an eccentric who teaches one of
Harvard's General Education courses aimed at
nonscientists, he will almost certainly agree that
his lectures are solely for career specialists.
Most historians, on the other hand, will insist
that every educated man should study history.
Nevertheless, when they choose reading lists and
topics for lectures or essays, the majority of
history professors weigh the needs and interests
of potential scholars more heavily than those of
aspiring doctors and journalists, even though the
scholars constitute a small minority of the class.
Since the end of World War II the danger of
making Harvard College into a mere cram school
for graduate study has become increasingly ob-
vious, and there has been a spirited effort to
develop a program of General Education— that
is, education aimed at turning out intellectuals
124
rather than chemists, doctors, economists, archi-
tects, or some other sort of professional man.
This dream attracted some of the most gifted
men on the faculty, especially those who had
themselves been through Harvard College in an
earlier era, or had at least accepted the New
England ideal of a cultured gentleman. But
the whole scheme has gradually lost its impetus
and been adapted to the needs of particular de-
partments. General Education courses for fresh-
men and sophomores increasingly serve merely as
introductions and recruiting stations for partic-
ular disciplines, while those for juniors and
seniors have largely been supplanted by depart-
mental offerings. One reason for this is that
General Education, as such, provides no career
for the intellectual teacher whose interests and
methods do not assure his promotion by a regular
department. Since all these departments exist to
train graduate as well as undergraduate students
—and since none shares the view of certain Ox-
ford dons that specialized knowledge has nothing
to do with high culture and is not a fit subject
for conversation— the so-called generalist rarely
survives long in the race for tenure.
The fate of General Education at Harvard is
dramatically paralleled by the demise of the ex-
perimental College at Chicago— another venture
conceived by a militant minority who liopcd to
develop a distinctive form of education for in-
tellectuals rather than scholars. Even when
judged by the achievements of tlie alumni in
graduate school, this College was an undoubted
success. Products of its broad general-education
program were more likely to enter graduate
school and did better when they got there than
the products of conventional departmental cur-
riculums. (Chicago's experiment reflected the ex-
perience of other institutions: doctors arc better
off studying French poetry than biochemistry as
undergraduates, and philosophers benefit more
from reading undergraduate physics than under-
graduate Hegel.) Yet none of these statistics im-
pressed the professional scholars in the University
of Chicago graduate school. These men saw the
College as a threat to their academic integrity
because it offered jobs to men who had neither
scholarly credentials nor ambitions. The grad-
uate-school professors wanted to use teaching
positions in the College to enlarge their own
departments, and to provide jobs for their more
promising graduate students. Eventually, the
C;oll(ge succumbed to this demand.
1 he destruction of these ventures at Harvard
and Chicago does not, of course, mean that the
young people for whom they were designed have
simply disappeared, or even despaired. Among
the diligent, curious, and relatively self-confident
students who come to the better university-
linked colleges, a growing minority succumb to
the faculty's invitation to play at scholarship for
four years, but the majority still resist. From
observation at Harvard, I would say that less
than a third of the students are seriously in-
terested in the kinds of questions which pre-
occupy their professors. This does not, however,
mean that the majority do not benefit from being
at Harvard. They are often interested in the gaps
in their own knowledge, even if they do not care
about the gaps in the faculty's. When they write
a senior Honors Thesis, as half now do, they are
perfectly capable of turning out something "in-
teresting," at least to themselves and often to
their instructors, even though they do not turn
out anything "significant."
Despite the often pedantic and technical de-
mands of the faculty for specialized excellence
on competitive examinations, a university-linked
college is still probably the best place for the
student who wants a general intellectual educa-
tion. (Need I add that to my way of thinking
these students who buck the system— rather than
becoming docile departmental timeservers— are
the primary rnison d'etre of their colleges?)
THE DWINDLING MARGIN
It is difficult to say exactly how many people
are getting the sort of university education of-
fered by Harvard and similar institutions. To-
day about 15 per cent of the students who enter
college will eventually take some sort of grad-
uate degree. Many of these students will, how-
ever, not get a strictly academic undergraduate
training, nor will their graduate degrees rep-
resent work of truly professional caliber. This
is notably true of the majority of master's degrees
awarded in Education. Of the million students
now applying each year to college, certainly no
more than 100,000 are looking for the sort of
university education I have described. Few col-
leges which draw on more than the top 10
per cent of the imdergraduate IQ pool have had
much success in sending substantial numbers of
alumni into graduate work.
Perhaps the limited demand for university edu-
cation is a covert piece of good fortune for edu-
cators, since the supply of university scholars
is barely adequate for even the minority of stu-
dents who want their services. Our graduate
schools turn out about 10,000 new Ph.D.s each
year, but nearly half take nonteaching jobs with
government, industry, or university research
groups. Many of the remaining men do not tliink
of themselves as potential astronomers, anthro-
pologists, or literary critics, but simply as poten-
tial professors. After a few years of teaching they
gradually stop following their professional jour-
nal, and give up their dreams of contributing to
it. They tend to slip into comfortable jobs in
colleges which send relatively few students to
graduate school, and thus they soon lose contact
with colleagues elsewhere. Thirty years from now
they will probably be distributing ideas they
picked up in graduate school, and will have made
little or no effort to formulate new approaches
suitable to the new generation before them.
When such men have been written off, we are
left with no more than 3,000 authentic new schol-
ars and scientists joining the teaching force
each year— little more than enough to replace
the 5 per cent annual turnover in a profession
of perhaps 50,000 individuals. Since the ratio of
undergraduates to scholars at most reputable
academic institutions is ten or twelve to one, the
number of people who have an opportunity to
get university-style instruction is today not much
more than half a million, and is not growing very
fast. Even allowing for some attrition (and attri-
tion rates are much lower among such students
than among the undergraduate population as a
whole), there is not going to be enough man-
power to accept more than about 140,000 uni-
versity students in the immediate future.
No doubt 140,000 places for 100,000 deserving
students seems a reasonable margin of error even
for my rather haphazard guesswork analysis.
Yet the complacent should remember that as the
number of people doing mindless repetitive jobs
declines— and as the number of people who can
find time and energy for such indoor sports as
reading increases— the proportion of the popu-
lation seeking a university education is likely
to rise sharply. We should beware of the neo-
racist view that large numbers of people are
biologically inferior, incapable of enjoying the
fruits of high culture, both now and forever.
Research on intelligence, like research on race,
has been through many conflicting phases, but
the trend in contemporary work suggests that
intellectuality has far more to do with one's
environment and personal experience than with
one's biological equipment. It does not, there-
fore, seem rash to predict that the number of
people seeking a university education will rise
at least as fast as, and perhaps faster than, the
over-all number seeking some sort of education
beyond high school. If this is so, our univer-
125
sity system will be asked to accommodate at least
200,000 new students annually by the end of this
decade, and perhaps even more. It is unlikely to
do so.
EDITORIAL MENTALITY
Since nine students out of ten do not seek
the sort of university education available at
Harvard and similar institutions, America's sys-
tem of educational free enterprise has developed
other sorts of institutions more suitable to their
demands, and perhaps even to their needs. In
California, for instance, universal higher educa-
tion is closer to realization than anywhere else
in the world. Three high-school graduates out
of four eventually find their way into a college
classroom, and so-called "terminal colleges"—
which award nothing higher than the bachelor's
degree— have emerged in almost every commu-
nity. There are now fifteen four-year State Col-
leges and more than sixty two-year Junior
Colleges, providing local students with a mixture
of general education and semiprofessional train-
ing.
What goes on in these colleges? Only a few
are geared to the requirements, or even the
scholarly outlook of the great graduate centers at
Berkeley, Stanford, and UCLA. They are provid-
ing instead a continuation of the local high
school and in fact they are predominantly staffed
by upgraded schoolteachers rather than down-
graded scholars. Occasionally they even speak of
the freshman and sophomore years as "13th and
14th grade." They also tend to perpetuate the
high school's assumption that students are im-
mature and irresponsible youngsters who must
be told exactly what to do and shown exactly how
to do it. Course requirements are detailed and
often absurd, but are justified on the ground that
mere undergraduates cannot possibly judge what
is good for them. Nothing in the course of study
leads a student naturally toward graduate work
(except in Education, where state certification
often requires a year of work beyond the B.A.).
Students in the California colleges are not
taught by scholars who see their lectures as
groimdwork for the "real" problems on which
research is being done. They are taught by men
whose work is spiritually akin to an editor's
—men who do not write books or articles them-
selves, but merely try to make other people's
books attractive and easily accessible to the
public. Such a teacher is constantly in danger of
assuming that his objective is merely to bureauc-
ratize knowledge into thirty-two lectures, each
126
(ilty minutes long, which will exactly fill the
number ol empty hours between the beginning
and end ol the term. Such thinking culminates
in the production oi a textbook which "covers"
the entire field in forty hours of reading time and
a vocabulary of 5,000 words. Faced with such in-
struction it is hardly surprising if students come
to speak of having "had" Shakespeare in fresh-
man English, or of having "done" European his-
tory in Social Science 10. Ultimately, the whole
college program becomes an obstacle rather than
an oppertunity, and the student's relationship
with his professor is confined merely to "figuring
out what he wants"— and giving it to him.
Faced with such attitudes, many teachers in
terminal Junior Colleges or Ste^e Colleges have
tried to work out programs which might some-
how be more relevant to the students who en-
rolled. Superficially this seemed easy enough.
"Introductory Psychology" became "Problems of
Family Living." "Freshman Comjjosition" be-
came "English Style in Business Correspondence."
But while the new labels may appeal to the high-
school students reading the catalogue, the old
subject matter is no more exciting to freshmen
cramming for exams. The final result is often
only to alienate even the teacher from his course,
making him feel that he is offering something
shoddy and second-rate, not quite up to his (often
brief) graduate-school experience— without even
appealing to the students for whom the courses
were designed. At least under the Harvard system,
where most courses reflect the professor's special
interests, there is usually (me interested student
in the classroom. And unscholarly students can
benefit from hearing a professor talk about ideas
for which he cares deeply.
In talking with undergraduates in these Cali-
fornia colleges I often got the impression that no
faculty, no matter how ingenious, could over-
come the students' impulses against taking books
and ideas seriously. Such students did not seem
to want to become involved in academic life, for
they did not want to feel guilty about not com-
pleting assignments, much less about not invent-
ing extra assignments for self -improvement. They
wanted their college to be just like any other
office, at which they would arrive at nine o'clock
to put in eight hours of work for a decent wage
of grades and course credits (convertible in due
course to degrees and hence cash). And then
iliey wanted to leave at five, free men. These
students were the nemesis of fraternity organ-
izers and school boosters and I have no doubt
*'iat they will one day be the despair of corpo-
^^-viitcis and morale boosters. They saw
both colleges and corporations merely as meal
tickets, rather than as communities which ollered
a way of life.
This reserve of the California students toward
their colleges is hardly surprising in a state like
California, where almost nothing is done to make
the student feel that going to college represents
a decisive commitment, or a sharp break— either
with the past pattern of his adolescent life, or
the future pattern of working life. Everything
about these colleges, from their modern "oj^en"
architecture to their colloquial, picture-studded
catalogues, makes them seem part of the larger
workaday world. The student is not even asked
to undergo entrance examinations, or to accept
the long period of indecision— the ordeal-by-un-
certainty—which make entrance to a university-
linked college seem a prize gained. In California
it would be more accurate to speak of "promo-
tion" than of "admission" to college, for attend-
ing college is a right rather than a privilege, and
the pupil's high-school record merely determines
whether he initially goes to a Junior College,
State College, or State University. Wherever he
goes, subsecjuent transfer is both easy and com-
mon.
Furthermore, the actual process of attending
college does not usually require that the student
move away from home or abandon his adolescent
friendships. In many cases he merely commutes
to another part of town. Under such circum-
stances even the healthy social shocks of Catholic
meeting Protestant, Chinese meeting Italian,
working ( lass meeting middle class, future teacher
meeting future businessman, or even boy meet-
ing girl, can all be cushioned or eliminated by
retreat to the old familiar contacts of the hearth
and street corner. But perhaps this is inevitable.
California has made higher education available
to students who formerly regarded it as utterly
alien. It follows that most of the initial effort at
adjustment has to come from the colleges— not
from the students.
It does not, however, follow that mass educa-
tion at California's public colleges is necessarily
stifling the creative capacities of all adolescents,
any more than mass production or the mass
media are necessarily restricting the choices of
all buyers or readers. Special purpose colleges,
like specialty stores and little magazines, flourish
on the West Coast. Private colleges like Stanford,
Mills, Scripps, and Reed are not undermined by
such public institutions as UCLA and San Jose
State. They cater, in fact, to the sons of the
public college alumni. And even at their worst,
after all, the terminal public colleges help dis-
127
perse at least some of the old "cultural plural-
ism" which allowed Bible-ridden teachers in
fundamentalist colleges to denounce Catholics
as agents of a Papal plot and immigrant Italian
parents to disown their daughters for marrying
Irish boys. Almost every comparison of college
freshmen with seniors shows that the intervening
years have depleted the reservoirs of bigotry and
provinciality which still dampen so much of
American life.
MORE THAN MELTING POTS
Needless to say, many professors at terminal
colleges such as California's want to do
more than spread the liberal, suburban, "all-
American" values. Even the less scholarly faculty
would often like their colleges to be more than
mere melting pots from which students emerge
without form or color.
In some cases this longing has led to experi-
mentation with new curriculums, as at San
Francisco State. But none of these experiments
has really bridged the gap between teachers and
students, or helped breed a distinctive sort of
alumnus, for none has been able to recruit
teachers who have come to terms with the kinds
of lives these alumni \\'Ould lead. Most professors,
even when they are not active scholars, simply
cannot imagine a satisfactory life in the settings
for which their pu})ils are headed, and they can-
not do much to equip these siydenis with the
social or intellectual skills they will need. In-
stead, they ignore the obviously unscholarly un-
dergraduates, try to convert the more promising
students to greater ambitions, and measure their
success by the number of sttidents they siphon
into graduate school.
It is difficult to see how this pattern could
really be altered. Since the State Colleges pay
quite decent wages to their teachers, they have
become attractive employers to many serious
scholars. Like all institutions, the State Colleges
are impressed by scholars, and by their profes-
sional accouterments like Ph.D.s and research
articles. Faced with a choice between two
teachers, they tend to grab the one with the most
scholarly distinction— since purely teaching abil-
ity is almost impossible to evaluate. During the
last decade the number of professional academi-
cians has increased rapidly, and a drive for uni-
versity status has taken shape. The scholars have
demanded, among other things, adminisftrative
autonomy comparable to the State University,
higher admission standards, and the right to de-
velop graduate training and research programs.
In the last year all these demands have been
granted, and no doubt this will give the more
ambitious faculty an opportunity to contribute
to higher learning, and thus escape morbid pre-
occupation with their inability to contribute to
student learning. No doubt terminal undergrad-
uates will be increasingly left to educate one an-
other, or to catch what wisdom they can from the
unscholarly j>rofessors who will remain part of
most Stale Colleges for a long time to come.
(Even California cannot support twenty research
centers along the lines of Berkeley, or find the
thousands of scholars each year who would be
needed to convert the State Colleges into wholly
scholarly institutions.) It is easy to deplore the
faculty's indifference to the average undergrad-
uate, but so long as the parents of most students
are unable to communicate with their late-ado-
lescent children, or to compete with schoolmates
in forming children's destinies, it is asking a
lot to expect the hired help to do better.
Despite these developments, California's ter-
minal colleges remain more interested in ex-
perimentation and in improving undergraduate
instruction than most of their counterparts else-
where. The State Colleges may be unduly in-
terested in gaining acceptance in university eyes,
but ambitious colleges elsewhere are positively
obsessed by such activities. As I have said, the
number of university students will undoubtedly
grow during the 1960s and much of this growth
will no doubt be handled by changing terminal
into university-linked colleges. But at most we
cannot look forward to the emergence of more
than a hundred new centers of scholarship during
this decade. Yet four or five hundred institu-
tions are trying to make the grade. (In practical
terms this struggle is expressed in attempts to
attract scholarly professors; the proportion in
most colleges is slowly declining, while in a fortu-
nate few it is rapidly increasing.) Most colleges
are going to fail in their university ambitions.
And, while failing, many will waste large chunks
of their budgets to acquire some of the trappings
of university scholarship— highly paid professor-
ships, research facilities, etc. Stuck with students
who don't want a university education and a
majority of teachers who are unfit to give them
one, they will be merely bitter— rather than
making the most of their considerable potenti-
alities.
It seems clear that the task of reform during
the next thirty years should be to develop and
finance a fruitful pattern of undergraduate life
for unscholarly undergraduates. But unless the
academic system changes radically, terminal col-
128
leges like San Francisco State are unlikely to
have any better record in this regard than uni-
versity colleges like Harvard and Chicago, or
university-linked colleges like Amherst and
Oberlin which accept the academic ideals ot the
jjrofessional schools lor which their students are
headed.
A SLENDER REED
Nevertheless, taken together and judged by
traditional standards, America's college and
university systems come closer to satisfying the
demands of the young than any other I know:
• For the one per cent of all freshmen who
want serious scholarly or scientific training, there
are universities with facilities and instructors as
good as any in the world.
• Foi- the perhaps 2 per cent who want a more
general intellectual education, there are both
university colleges and liberal-arts colleges which
offer a vast choice of books, lectures, and class-
mates, and only mild penalties for failing to be-
come technically proficient in a particular aca-
demic discipline.
• For the approximately 5 per cent of all fresh-
men who want an introduction to upper-middle-
brow culture and upper-middle-class conviviality,
followed by technically distinguished graduate
training, suitable combinations of fraternity life
and classroom diligence are available.
• For the one freshman in about five who
wants technical or semiprofessional training,
terminal colleges are as painless, as cheap, and
probably more effective than most European
schemes of apprenticeship or technical institutes.
• For the one in five who merely wants certifi-
cation as an ambitious and respectable potential
employee, college diplomas can provide social
security even in the face of unemployment.
• Even for that half of the national freshman
class which does not know what it wants and
never takes a degree, college is often a valuable
moratorium for finding oneself or one's talents.
Yet while American higher education may sat-
isfy an unprecedented proportion of the explicit
demands made by its clients, the fact is that most
young people have very limited ideas of what
ihey want, and they need above all to be given
some bases for deciding. In dealing with such
unexpressed needs our colleges fail badly-and
in doing so they fail our society as a whole. For
il ihe (unction of a college is to help its pupils
lo formulaic ihe problems they face, or will
soon face, and to lidp them foresee the conse-
c|iirnccs of the various solutions among which
they must choose, then most American under-
graduates are, at most, half-educated.
Unlike academic specialties, human problems
do not fall into neat departmental categories,
and most college alumni have little basis what-
ever for choosing between such things as politi-
cal parties, newly published ideas, or methods
of bringing up their children. In most cases they
have merely acquired the collective wisdom of
their fellow-.American adolescents, which is not
so slight as some adults think, but is still a rather
slender reed to lean on. Few have been brought
to see the world through the teachers' eyes, much
less through the eyes of all the preceding genera-
tions which, since the Hebrew prophets, have
recorded their wisdom, their visions, and their
warnings. Nor have most students been helped
to sec their problems as young people in other
nations Avould see them; the world of the French-
man, ilie Chinese, and the Zidu are all equally
closed lo ihcm. So, for that matter, is the world
of the painter and the physicist.
The failine of college students to gain a
sense of the possibilities of life— to go beyond
the hackneyed alternatives presented by our
everyday culture— is never precisely recorded,
either by official college accreditation reports or
by statistical studies of college alumni. The un-
written books by potentially gifted students, for
example— or the cliche thinking of those college
graduates who still equate "deficit financing"
with communism— are never weighed in the bal-
ance when we assess the quality of our colleges.
Yet considering all the benefits which do come,
occasionally, from higher education, we shall de-
ceive and cheat ourselves badly if we do not
confront the immense gap between the possible
and the actual in college education today. For
if the quality of life is to improve anything like
as fast in the second half of this century as the
cjuantity has grown in the first half, our colleges
will have to become enthusiastic promoters of
new ways of thought and new styles of life.
In this light the most damning single fact
about higher education today is that among
nearly 2,500 accredited and unaccredited institu-
tions there seem to be fewer than half-a-dozen
radical experiments dedicated to testing new con-
ceptions of what college life, and hence adult
life, are capable of becoming. Unless not only
the scholars and teachers and administrators who
launch new ventures, but the parents and philan-
thropists who support them, all show more cour-
age and imagination in the next decade than they
have in the last, the fruits of universal higher
education are likely to taste rather tinny.
Harper's Magazine, Ocluber J961
SEX: THE PROBLEM
COLLEGES EVADE
When college girls by the dozen come to
their childhood pediatricians desperate
and in tears because they are pregnant, it is time
to question what is being done in the colleges to
protect them.
Every generation, of course, has had to deal
with the problem of illegitimate pregnancies
among young people, some on the college level.
And as the Harvard Crimson put it in a recent
article, "in sheer wildness today's college students
do not compare with their fabled predecessors."
Two factors, however, make the current crop dif-
ferent: (1) premarital sex in all its forms is much
more widespread and openly discussed among
students; and (2) in the midst of this apparent
sophistication, at a time when highly reliable
methods of birth control exist, the majority of
students are nearly as ignorant of the facts as the
poorest, illiterate Indian peasant.
The girls who get pregnant usually tell the
doctor that they thought they knew how to pre-
vent conception. Some had gone through early
sex-education courses in which they had learned
about birds and bees and the romance of sperm
and egg. They had studied marriage and the
family in sociology courses, "body mechanics"
in physical-education courses, the human body in
biology, and in some cases had even taken special
series of lectures given by local physicians under
the heading of freshman orientation. All these
courses had remained on such a high plane, how-
ever, that the students' ideas about how concep-
tion actually takes place were incredibly vague—
a composite of old wives' tales plus, perhaps, the
reading of Peyton Place.
MILTON L LEVINE, M.D.
AND MAYA PINES
Because the colleges are afraid to deal frankly
with the normal sexual drives of young people,
the consequences for students can be tragic.
Dr. Milton Levine, who has written widely on
the sexual problems of youth, is an Associate
Professor of Clinical Pediatrics at Cornell
University Medical College. His collaborator,
Maya Pines, is the author of the book, "Retarded
Children Can Be Helped," and a contributor to
"Harper's" and other magazines.
As a result, the students are no better oflF than
in the quaint old days when hygiene courses
simply taught girls to say something like, "I am
a Wellesley girl and, I hope, a lady." They are
worse off, in fact, since times and the definition
of a lady have changed and, in the words of one
college physician, "the attitude of the younger
generation today is pretty much free-for-all sex."
Few colleges have any clear-cut policies on how
to deal with this attitude. Some are downright
contradictory: On the one hand, rules have been
relaxed to the point where boys and girls at one
co-educational college in the Midwest, for in-
stance, are allowed to spend the night in sleeping
bags in an adjoining park, as long as five stu-
dents are present— a supposedly magic figure; on
the other, the colleges severely penalize anyone
who gets caught in "illicit sexual relations." One
young man and woman were suspended from the
same college recently— despite the fact that both
were in excellent academic standing— for produc-
ing a baby only six months after they were
married.
Other colleges limit themselves to the role of
policemen. They have a wide and rather comical
array of regulations about who may visit a stu-
dent dormitory, where (in downstairs lounges,
called "passion pits," or in student rooms), when,
and how (doors open, lights on, four feet on the
floor). While the boys are given considerable
freedom, the girls' dormitories impose strict cur-
130
fews— which occasionally backfire, as wlicn i,nils
stay out all night rather than be punished for
coming in too late. A number of schools go so
far as to outlaw student-owned cars, at least for
freshmen (sometimes for lack of parking facili-
ties, as well as for moral reasons, to be sure). If
nothing else, such restrictions may succeed in
obstructing ordinary friendly relationships.
"You never have any privacy," a serious-
minded Oberlin girl complains. "So you change
your whole concept of what should properly be
done before other people. There's no place for a
couple to talk, nowhere to go where you're not
in everybody's eye. If you break up after six
months of going steady, you must do it in public.
Normallv you don't expect to see someone crying
hysterically in the street; yet it's fairly common—
a boy and girl standing there and one of them
weeping in front of everybody, because there's no
place where they can be alone."
The futility of such attempts to abolish privacy
is obvious. Young people who really want to
have love affairs while they are in college will do
so anyway. These are the very years in which the
majority of Americans get married, the years in
which boys are most active sexually. If they do
not find a way on campus, they will meet off-
campus on weekends, or during college vacations.
A recent informal study by a dean of women
showed that nearly all the current pregnancies
among her well-protected brood could be traced
to spring or Christmas vacations out of town.
In varying degrees, every college has its share
of unwanted pregnancies, although college girls
under twenty actually have very much less pre-
marital intercourse than any of their contempo-
raries, according to Kinsey. Only 17 per cent to
19 per cent of the college girls aged sixteen to
twenty lose their virginity, as opposed to 38 per
cent of girls of the same age who never went
beyond elementary school, and 32 per cent of
those who never went beyond high school. Dif-
ferences based on educational levels tend to
disappear as the girls grow older, however. Be-
tween the ages of twenty-one and twenty-five,
over 30 per cent of all unmarried girls have
some premarital relations. The figure increases
a little with every new generation.
Carelessness is not an uncommon reason for
college pregnancies. And, of course, no existing
contraceptive icchnicjue is 100 per cent reliable.
But all evidence points to the fact that the girls'
patent ignorance about how to protect them-
selves is the rhief factor involved. The result,
accor(hng ro rough siuflcnt estimates, is four to
five unwanted pregn;in(ics per year for every
thousand coeds. If this is true, and one adds the
pregnancies in women's colleges, it comes to
a total of well over a thousand pregnant and un-
married college girls each year.
When such widespread tragedy occurs, how can
institutions of higher learning be excused for
their suppression of information on this vital
aspect of life? It mocks the "freedom of ideas,"
"education of the whole man," and other cliches
of the academic world.
College pregnancies seldom appear in the pub-
lished figures on illegitimacy (which have been
rising throughout the nation) because the ma-
jority of them end in abortions. Through an
abortion grapevine which exists around most col-
leges, these desperate girls try to find their way
to some doctor, rather than to a quack. If they
are lucky enough to find one, they arrange to
have the abortion performed over the weekend,
so they can be back in class Monday morning.
Usually their parents^ know nothing about it. Of
course the girls are taking enormous chances, for
if the operation is badly done, they risk death.
Other girls decide to have their babies. They
drop out of school and out of sight, then usually
surrender the child to an adoption agency. As
psychiatrists have found out, however, few young
women who give up their own babies ever re-
cover completely from the feeling of guilt and
remorse.
The third possibility is for the couple to marry
—even though they may be far from ready for it
emotionally, or may be totally unsuited to each
other. This sort of beginning loads the dice
against them and their children. Even without
immediate parenthood, a disproportionate num-
ber of early marriages end in divorce.
SEX IN THE ABSTRACT
Colleges should face these facts realistically.
Besides their primary purpose, education,
they cannot escape responsibility for the emo-
tional and physical life of young people on their
campuses. Since they know that a certain num-
ber of students will have premarital sexual rela-
tions despite official disapproval, the colleges
should try to make sure that all students know
how to avoid the most serious consequences.
"If only the girls knew what they were dealing
with, what was safe and what not safe, these
things wouldn't happen," says a budding medical
student bitterly, reflecting on what he saw during
his years in college. "The college's ostrich at-
titude is responsible for these pregnancies."
TIk: ;i(liiiii)istrators themselves are sometimes
*
quite aware of this problem. At least one college
president would like to make information on
contraceptives part of the required freshman
orientation lectures but does not dare do so.
College officials are afraid of pressure from the
Catholic Church and from Protestant funda-
mentalists; they are afraid of parents, alumni,
and trustees; and they are afraid that contribu-
tions from big business and conservative phil-
anthropists or even state governments would
stop. From a j)ublic-relations standpoint, they
are afraid that merely mentioning the words,
"birth control," would tarnish the good name of
their college.
Hinnan reproduction is still a taboo subject in
some of the nation's public schools. In Los An-
geles, senior high-school biology teachers can
get fired for mentioning it. Even on the college
level, biology teachers often skirt aroiuid the
subjects of reproduction and contraception.
When a college goes to the trouble of offering
a required hygiene course in which it sliows films
on human reproduction, however, with lectmes,
models, and charts on physiology, fertilization,
pregnancy, and birth, it comes as a shock to learn
that the coinse conspicuously omits any discus-
sion of contraception. Yet this is the case at
Hunter College and other New York municipal
colleges today, where, because of pressure from
religious groups, authorities specifically dis-
courage teachers from taking up the subject.
Hygiene courses in general have fallen in dis-
repute among students, and their number is
gradually diminishing. Even at Hunter there are
plans for changing the name of the course to a
supposedly more inviting one, like "Concepts in
Modern Living."
A refreshing exception to this decline may be
found at Barnard College, where the college phy-
sician teaches a one-semester course for freshmen
simply labeled "Hygiene— a study of the prin-
ciples of physical and mental health." Among
lectures on nutrition and all phases of normal
growth, the course takes up prenatal develop-
ment, the birth of a baby, and birth control. "I
answer all questions," says Dr. Marjory Nelson,
who developed the course, "and I've been doing
it since 1948."
A few other enlightened colleges offer such in-
formation through freshman orientation pro-
grams or discussion panels. Vassar, for instance,
conducts two or three "sex panels" for freshmen
and sophomores during the academic year, at
which the head of the department of zoology, the
college physician, the college psychiatrist, and the
assistant to the president answer any questions
the students wish to ask. A large number of
the questions always deal with contraception.
Some students feel that attendance at any lec-
tures or discussions about contraception should
be made compulsory, or else "Who would go? It
would be too embarrassing," a State University of
Iowa coed pointed out. "Unless it were required,
people wouldn't take it because of the social re-
action to it." Others claim that for religious
reasons, attendance should be a matter of choice.
Possibly the way to handle it would be to make
attendance required, except where a student
states in writing that it would go against his
religious convictions.
At any rate, every college student should be
exposed to something of this sort— an objective
review of the facts, presented in a climate of free
discussion.
W'hoever undertakes to guide such a session
should be prepared to face without blinking such
typical questions as, "Would you describe the
contraceptive diaphragm"; "Is it possible to be-
132
come pregnant Aviiliout complete sexual inter-
course"; or, "Can repeated petting to the point
immediatelv before intercourse have the psycho-
logical effect of making normal sexual relations
difficult after marriage?"
FACTS VS. SERMONS
Instead, some colleges create a very tense and
punitive atmosphere in their "sex education"
lectures. "Go ahead and do what you want," a
phvsician tells men at a Midwest college, "but
Ave'll be treating your psychiatric disorders, your
pregnant girl friends, and your venereal disease!"
All too often lecturers selected by the colleges
are more interested in upholding conventional
standards than in presenting any facts. Official
attempts at indoctrination sometimes boom-
erang, however. When Oberlin invited two well-
known family counselors, Drs. Sylvanus and
Evelyn Duvall, to talk about "Men and Women
in Courtship and Marriage" last spring, the cam-
pus ncAvspaper ran an editorial criticizing the
speakers' moralistic approach.
"Although Ave were amused by the Drs. Du-
vall's statements," wrote the Oberlin Revieto, "we
also see serious overtones in them. Here, as in the
freshman seminar program, the College seems to
be trying to inculcate students with a specific
moral view under the guise of sex education. It is
certainly the privilege of the College, or any in-
dividual, tf) take a certain moral position and
expound it at length, but any exposition of this
tvpe should be clearly labeled. Opinion offered
as fact is little more than irresponsibility, no
matter what position that opinion advocates. The
administration could easily squelch this issue
by establishing a dispassionate, factual, com-
))ulsory program for freshmen under the auspices
of the /oology department to replace the present
physical-education program, which often is
handled subjectively. Until then, opinion will
continue to encroach upon fact."
To answer the Duvalls, the Oberlin Student
Government then invited the bete noire of col-
lege moralists, ex-Professor Leo Koch. Dr. Koch,
formerly assistant professor of biology at the
University of Illinois, wa, fired a year ago for
staling that he saw no reason to condemn pre-
marital sexual relations between mature and
responsible students who were aware of the
(onsequences. This led to a huge protest demon-
stration in which about two thou,sand Illinois
siudenis rallied in I >> Ko(h\ defense, brandish-
ing posters with slog;iiis like: Not Free Love,
but Free Speech." While (otuiuuing to fight his
case through the courts, with the help of an
illustrious "Committee for Leo Koch," Dr. Koch
has been touring the country and giving lectures.
At Oberlin, large numbers of students came to
hear him attack the "moral fascism" of uni-
versities which try to impose Victorian standards
on modern youth.
Obviously no college could officially advocate
free love and survive in our society. However,
there is a world of difference between such ac-
tion and merely giving honest answers to ques-
tions which trouble students. One way to answer
many of these questions in advance would be to
provide each freshman with a recommended
reading list of reliable, forthright books, such as
Dr. Alan F. Guttmacher's Babies by Choice or
by Chance (Avon, 1961, 50 cents) or his more
detailed Complete Book of Birth Control, just
off the press (Ballantine, 50 cents). Both paper-
backs are easily available at newsstands or drug-
stores as well as at bookstores. The Complete
Book gives full descriptions of all accepted tech-
niques and includes what is probably the clearest
explanation of the rhythm method, the only
method approved by the Catholic Church.
To help students use this book knowledge
wisely and well, the colleges should provide easy *
access to a sympathetic adviser— physician, psy-
chiatrist, or psychologist— for individual counsel-
ing. Students who wish further information could
then be referred to an off-campus physician,
who would deal with them as with any one of
his private patients. Another important function
of the colleges would be to sponsor frank, open
discussions of the whole subject.
For a good many students, this would simply
be a useful introduction to family planning in
marriage. The others would have a chance to
weigh their actions without benefit of half-truths.
As Kinsey found out, fear of pregnancy has never
been a major factor in preventing premarital
experience. When the new oral contraceptives be-
come widely available, as they soon will be, preg-
nancy as retribution and as a deterrent will
become even less significant. The major influence
then, as now, will be what Kinsey classified as
"moral considerations."
Certainly the colleges could help students
understand better the psychological, social, and
moral implications of their sexual maturity. To
do this effectively, however, they should take into
account the sexual activity that exists on
campuses today and try to match their policies
to deal with it as realistically as- possible. As a
practical matter, all the colleges in America are
still a long way from this goal.
Harper's Magazine, October 1961
THE YOUNG
NEGRO REBELS
What lies behind the impassive, familiar
faces of the rebellious Negro students of
the South— the faces we see in the daily photo-
graphs of sit-ins and Freedom Rides and jailings?
This spring I accompanied a number of the
students on one of the first Freedom Rides,
spending days talking with them as our bus
drove from Washington to Alabama, stopping
off at the Negro college campuses and churches
on the way. As we traveled I wondered how
close a white woman in her forties— a bookish
liberal new to the South— could come to the
reality of the young Negro revolt. The more I
was with the students, the more sharply different
they seemed from any Northern students, or
young people anywhere, I have ever known.
Even to try to understand the Negro student
movement in the South means that one must cast
aside all one's usual notions about "political
action" in colleges. For example, at a time
when religious concern among most young peo-
ple seems staid or perfunctory, many of the
Negro students are Christian revolutionaries.
The street photographs do not show the hymn-
singing and prayers and religious meetings out of
which the decisions to act in the streets have
grown. And the Negro students do not indulge
in the traditional group hysterias or casual
hatreds of student movements— the shoving dem-
onstrations and the jeering cries. Refusing to
strike back at an adversary, insisting they do not
hate, they bring an extraordinary restraint to the
crisis they have created— as well as a passivity
perhaps inherited from the acquiescent past.
Certainly they have little in common with the
radical student intellectuals in the North. Al-
CHARLOTTE DEVREE
The most widely publicized student activity in
recent years has been the struggle of young
Negroes in the South for equal rights.
But the inner thinking of the students themselves
is — 05 Charlotte Devree shows here — very
different from the kind of protest sympathetic
Northerners might expect. A graduate of
Sarah Lawrence, Mrs. Devree has worked for
"Look" and the Sunday "New York Times,"
and is the wife of the art critic, Howard Devree.
though they have broken beyond doubt with the
accommodating attitudes of their elders, rebel-
lion comes to them not so much from books but
from looking around. Those I met, at least,
were usually very poor, very haphazardly edu-
cated, very little interested in sweeping economic
or political change. But they were on fire with
their purpose and, in their frequently bad
speech, talked of little else. Making an end to
segregation had obviously given their lives far
more focus than the thin studies offered them
possibly could. But, more important, it seemed
to me that their truly desperate struggle— the
beatings, the reprisals, the jailings— was reward-
ing them with the very identity and pride that
Negroes in the United States have so long sought
in vain. This is already their secret triumph.
When I first met the group of Freedom Riders
in W^ashington— including a number of poor
college students from the South— it seemed to me
that their driving pressure, their controlled ex-
citement, would inescapably be contagious to the
other young Negroes we met. But the situation
is not so simple, and my first lesson was that, in
general, the upper stratum of Negro students
does not respond. When our group visited
Howard University in Washington, it seemed
clear that the children of the well-to-do took
little interest in rebellion. (Howard is called
the Harvard of Negro education, but on entering
most Southern Negro campuses one does well to
forget the leading white universities of the North
134
aliogcihcr. Their longer traditions and im-
measurably higher achievements put them in a
separate category.)
A suave philosopliy major described his gener-
ation: "We entirely lack the Negro radicalism of
the 'thirties and we are not race-conscious," he
said. "Here you see the Negro elite. These stu-
tlenis (ouldn't care less how Negroes travel on
buses. They'll drive home in their cars. Farther
down in the poorer South you'll find more
support."
We lunched with some Howard students. It
was a cool meeting, exasperating to our students
from the moneyless Deep South. "That was the
Black Bourgeoisie for sure," they said afterward.
They are not of it. A Howard student named
Henry Thomas showed me a clipping from his
wallet which quoted Robert Frost as saying, "In
this country they put helpless old people in the
hospital. They put helpless young people in col-
lege." Thomas, a sophomore on scholarship, left
his books to join our ride. He had comman-
deered friends and their cars for weekend trips to
Virginia and Maryland, where ihey had success-
fidly sat-in at counters and restaurants. He had
known violence and jail in the Deep South and
set himself apart from his luxury-loving school-
mates.
WE'RE UP ALL NIGHT
At Virginia Union, a group of Baptist col-
leges on one campus in Richmond, I found
a small group of the alert living side by side with
an apathetic majority. The difference seemed to
turn on whether they had taken up the (hallenge
of segregation. What I saw of their education
made me doubt if it could stimulate even the
most determined students. (Southern Negro de-
liominational colleges, though now fighting up-
hill, have in general a standard below most others
in the country.)
Uncut grass, untrimmed hedges, stoops needing
paint, the central flower bed a mass of weeds-
ihese did not signify concentration on high learn-
ing, but simply poverty and listless education.
One heard none of the usual sounds of student
industry-no typewriters clicking, no advanced
music playing on records or pianos. Indeed it was
<i silent campus. When I tried to (onverse with
some students on the paths, I found their speech
so crude and badly formed that I scarcely caught
a w(;rd. With other dark young men, well-dressed
though Ihey were, one sensed emptiness, nothing-
ness, as ;. lack of response followed the ordinary
liieiidly (juestions. They seemed not to be alive-
inside and I felt their answers came from some
vacuum that continued to absorb them as we
talked. Educated white men in our group shared
the disheartening impression.
But a small group of the intensely articulate
and rebellious came to chapel in the evening.
The boy next to me, lithe and shining as a young
seal, whisjjcred after the last Icmg prayer that
white students were joining the cause. They
seemed to understand: the time had come for
the end of segregated life. Whites had written
from camj)uses North and South, he said, to ask
how they could help. He'd already been to a
secret meeting organized in a Southern city-
over a hundred white and Negro students had
come, from all over the country. I asked: was
this a conspiracy of his generation alone, some-
thing that excluded the older whites? No, he
thought it wasn't. Then he grasped my hand
and walked cpiickly *iway.
Later in a cafeteria I shared a table with
Charles Sherrod, a campus hero of the sit-in
movemeni, recently returned fiom jail. As we
sijjped ice water and words rushed from this
slight, immacidate student, he seemed burned
pale by cold fury. He condemned the college
administrators who, after the success of stiulent
sit-ins at Richmond counters, forbade a planned
movie stand-in. "We initiated the sit-ins! I say
to them, let us carry on, don't direct us, don't
slop us!" His anger extended to divided national
Negro leadership. "They're not getting results.
We have discussed a death-fast to bring them
together. Some of us have to be willing to die."
Like some other sit-in leaders I had met,
Sherrod talked with an oddly stiff, overcorrect
diction that became colloquial and natural only
when he spoke very swiftly. He was bitter about
the gap between himself and his timorous elders.
"They want you to try for a good job with the
telephone company and all that, but it's not
enough to live that safe life. You see, we young
jjcople, we want to challenge frivolous ways with
our drama!"
He insisted that the sit-in idea was not as new
as it api^eared: his generation had always been
cc)ntemj)tu()us of the Negro role in America and
il had always rebelled in small ways. As a boy
he staged solitary kneel-ins in white churches,
and ii he was sometimes given a place up front
for show, the churches did not desegregate. "We
have been looking for a way to act, and now we
have it."
ihe central experience for him is the thrill
ol ,i< tion with others his age. "You get ideas in
jaii, " he went on; "you talk with other young
135
I
people you've never seen. Right away we recog-
nize each other. People like yourself, getting out
of the past. We're up all night, sharing creativity,
planning action. You learn the truth in prison,
you learn wholeness. You find out the difference
between being dead and alive."
As I wrote down the unlikely, full-blown
phrases, it seemed doubtful that people would be-
lieve that a modern young man talked in just
this way. But then it is altogether unlikely to
most educated Northerners that a young man
should both take the Bible seriously and think of
himself as reborn in jail. "Think of the faith
his own youth gives a man! You know, I want
to launch out, I want to share emotion and ad-
venture with my generation. Life should be
open, open! T don't know the consequence of
living freely or the shape of the future but I
mean to lixic, and find joy. I want to go ahead in
a new way— maybe not the way the whites have
shown."
This is a kind of revolutionary temper, but
what kind? Though Sherrod's childhood had
been poor, his family more than once "on the
city," he is no more interested in rebellion to
attain economic equality than a kitten. His con-
cern is the human right: "We are not the puppets
of the white man. We want a different world
where xve can sjjeak, where we can communicate."
Nor did he think it appropriate to revolt against
what seemed to me the narrowness of the educa-
tion or the college. He had found himself on this
campus, he said— life and thought had opened
up for him there. He hoped to go on to a North-
ern theological seminary in preparation for the
Baptist ministry.
What a puritan he seemed— so impatient in the
cafeteria at my wanting a cigarette, forbidden in
Baptist buildings. When he asked what I read,
and I mentioned some European writers, he dis-
approved instantly. He did not read the writings
of atheists. Radicalism in its familiar forms had
not touched him.
"ONE RACE"
Not until Atlanta had I a chance to talk to
Negro girls. Paine College, its pretty cam-
pus well-kept, has six hundred students, only two
hundred of them men. As usual we were met by
undergraduates and young faculty. The higher
administrators did not wish to be photographed
with us. No one blamed them. They had enough
difficulty trying to improve their colleges without
associating themselves with trouble.
The librarian said with pride that her stacks
contain 32,000 volumes, but the reading-room,
with its expanses of cream-color wall between a
few partially filled oak cases, was strangely bare.
One case, though, was jammed with heavy
volumes: five shelves of bound copies of the
National Geographic. A boy at a table, whom I
asked about the college bookstore, closed at that
hoiu, said that it sells mostly textbooks. Any
paperbacks? A handful.
In my room in the women's dormitory in the
soft evening I listened to the riotous shouts in the
corridor. Girls ran to the phone to call their
young men, then ran to their rooms where their
friends waited, to tell what was said. I looked;
except possibly behind a few closed doors, no
one was cracking a book. There was a banging at
my door; when I opened it six girls in nice night-
robes filed in and sat on the beds. They saw my
cigarettes. Did they smoke? Laughter. It was
against the rules but they all did. We talked
on and on. They constantly planned sit-in
demonstrations with signs, as other young people
might plan picnics. Where? At the movies, the
stores, at the golf course when "Ike" shows up.
This is their Saturday fun.
They will be teachers and laboratory tech-
nicians. A student nurse said that one of her
classes in a hospital in town is divided, white
girls from other training schools on one side of
a line, Negroes on hers. The teacher talks only
to the whites; when Negroes raise their hands,
they are not called on. The girls were angry too
at the editor of the local paper for a recent page-
one editorial declaring that segregation must re-
main on local buses because Negroes are syphilitic
and dirty, not fit company on seats for whites.
"And they want us to prepare their food and
handle their babies."
My question: do yom hate whites? I asked for
frankness. No, they said, no, we do not want to
fill ourselves with hate. Really, we do not hate.
Another question: what is your vision of an in-
tegrated society? Shy smiles, and then, all at
once, "One race, one human race! We might as
well say it. ^Ve're all mixed up already. It's been
going on since the first day of slavery." Quietly,
they went off to their rooms.
At Friendship Junior College in Rock Hill,
South Carolina, it seemed plain that the money-
starved, segregated education of the South is not
in itself the main cause of student rebellion.
There are exceptions, of course, but this is one
of the poorer Negro colleges: small brick build-
ings, their porches rotted, stand around a tilted
little croquet field, the wickets awry. In the
women's washroom a hole in the floor goes
136
through to the basement. Everything was clean
as a whistle. In the recreation-room, a bit more
substantial than a shack, a committee of students
—all militant veterans of picket lines and jail-
ings— ^velcomed us. They had swept and washed
the whole place, and in jackets and slacks, their
neckties printed with the message: "Jim Crow
Must Go," were dressed in their best for us. As
tliey sat in folding chairs in a semicircle beyond
us. watching silently our tired group, they struck
nic as being the gentlest of creatures. One, on a
nicket line a month or so before in town, had
been stomped to a bloody mess and hospitalized.
Plastered with bandages, he returned that day to
the lines, where he so impressed the whites that
in subsequent hours they touched no one on the
line. I asked the student nearest me if he hated
the embattled whites. "No," he said, "no, I do
not hate. I feel sorry for them. T do believe I
am my brother's keeper."
I attended two classes. In the first, in American
history, the teacher spoke very slowly and mo-
notonously, as if he were dictating a book, and
repeated topic sentences to be sure everyone
wrote them down in full. During the entire lec-
ture students kept their heads bent over large
notebooks, copying what they could. At the end
of the lesson, on the Trent affair, when the
teacher asked a question, two students, thumbing
through notes, read back unrelated material. A
third, who had more time, found the answer.
In European history the teacher went cha-
otically, I thought, through ideas and events lead-
ing to the French Revolution. The blackboard
behind him was full of students' scrawls— "Free-
dom Freedom," and "We Will Arise"— words
of songs students sing constantly. The teacher
made no connection between the words and the
subject of the lesson, nor did any student. The
revolutionary democracy of Rousseau may have
lighted the minds of African leaders but in Rock
Hill the connection is not made. Again, there
was much note-taking. When a student raised his
hand to ask why, because the French king was so
far from his people, did that lead to revolution,
the teacher, though he tried, had no answer. Nor
could he say, when asked, why Versailles was not
destroyed. Yet he was an attractive, eager young
man doing his best.
A DIM OLD MOTION PICTURE
One cannot understand the young Negro
r( hcls without understanding their versions
ol Christianity I think I learned most about this
from Jr.hn Lewis, a short, muscular Nceio student
in oin- group who is taking his degree at Ameri-
can Baptist Theological Seminary in Nashville.
When our bus stopped in a Virginia town, John
was asked to preach in a Negro church which
took up a collection for the Freedom Riders and
I listened to his blessing over the plates which
had been filled with dollar bills by a poor and
elderly congregation. "Give us the courage and
spirit to be willing to turn our world, our nation,
and especially the Southland upside doivn— until
freedom becomes a reality for all men."
John was born on a farm in southern Alabama
where his family still lives— one himdred acres
in corn, cotton, peanuts, and hogs. He is the only
one of ten children to finish high school. From
the first to the sixth grade he went to a small
school housed in a church, the county supplying
books and one teacher, the parents everything
else. John carried wood, fired the stove, swept
the floor and kne\y that this was no education.
"I always hated the run-down school. I resented
the whole system as far back as I can remember."
He never had encouragement from teachers.
"They weren't interested in students. They were
victims of the same system themselves, segregated
education. They had no education. Marks didn't
mean a thing. Even an A was only fooling."
John read what he could find. "Maybe my
mother motivated me. It was her thesis, get an
education and you don't have to be a slave, you
don't have to work a farm, you can help the
mass."
When he was six he was given a Bible for
Christmas. "I still have it, I cherish it. I've al-
ways read it, I've always been in love with it,
since I was small." Later on, an vmcle going to
college brought him Robert Louis Stevenson,
Dickens, and biographies. "After the Bible, my
favorite book is Up from Slaveiy."
At the high school near his home, "it was real
old-fashioned paternalism. You know, teaching
the boys to be handy men and the young ladies
to clean house." John planted cotton and corn
and he hoed. "It wasn't a good technical school
in agriculture. We did what they call landscap-
ing, cut wood in the forest and built dams and
all. I did this for four years. In between we had
a few subjects, like physics without a lab. This
is still going on near my home."
Desperate for books, .John went again and
again to the public library in nearby Troy, al-
ways to be refused. Once he sent the library a
petition with attached pages of signatures, but
got no answer. Nor did he when he applied to a
normal school six miles away. At home in the
evenings, after tending the chickens, he fresh-
!
137
i^TOi.tt;
ened up for the important hours— for reading the
Montgomery Advertiser and, when he could get
it, Time, and always, the Bible. He told me how
he had consciously tried to form a personal code
from the Sermon on the Mount, citing the
phrases: "Blessed are the meek . . . whosoever
shall smite thee on thy right cheek, turn to him
the other also . . ."
During the years in handv-man school and
since, John has preached, often on Sundays all
day long. At divinity school in Nashville, he
began to interpret the Scriptures differently, tak-
ing the life of Christ as social gospel— the body as
well as the soul of man is to be saved. He read
a CORE pamphlet on non-violence— based on the
ideas of Gandhi— and attended an action work-
shop. Finally he helped instigate the sit-in
demonstrations in Nashville and was arrested at
a lunch counter. His distraught parents had
begged him to return to his old religious ideas.
"My parents are in-turning, fatalistic. They think
if they are good and live right, things will be
better some time. I couldn't go along."
On John's twenty-first birthday he found him-
self in a Nashville jail. He had his Bible and,
taking as text Matthew 10:34, he preached to
fellow prisoners and jail police. The text:
"Think not that 1 am come to send peace on
earth: I came not to send peace, but a sword."
This he took to mean that truth must not be
sacrificed to false peace. The old order is to
be stirred up to bring the best from the worst.
John ^\ants to travel and then return to Troy
as a Baptist minister. \Vhat is perhaps most
striking to a Northerner about his ideas of
Christian revolt— and those of other young Ne-
groes—is their combination of realism and ex-
traordinarily patient hopefidness. For he knows
as A\ell as anvone the difficulties he will face back
in Alabama, and he is as shrewd as anvone could
be about the tactics to be used. But he does be-
lieve that ultimately a community of loving in-
dividuals will exist there, and indeed he seemed
to regard our little group of riders as a tiny
sample of what so far-off a world might be like.
He willingly accepts that he may be called upon
to give up his life before he is through, but "I
love this life and I don't want to die. This is a
great time to be alive. "
A few da\s later at Rock Hill, John opened
138
the screen door at the bus station and found his
wav blocked bv white men, their sports shirts
hanging out over their trousers. He said, "I have
a right to come in here," and with his hands at
his sides he walked slowlv into their flying fists,
and was badly beaten.
Perhaps in the end it is impossible for the
visiting Northerner to understand completely
how such a stance— and I found it again and
again among the students— is formed out of
Southern religion. The suffocating little church
in which I'd heard John preach seemed a place
for spirit to be oppressed and quietly defeated
rather than quietly inflamed. Even,'thing on the
platform before me— the patched carpet, the
thronelike brown chairs, the Bible stand— had
an air of being cast off long ago by the white
world. After the church service itself I felt I had
watched a scene enacted decades in the past as if
someone had forgotten to turn off a dim motion
picture. Yet the young minister who had intro-
duced John had spoken of Christian rebellion in
the same tones, demanding the desegregation, in
that town, of the courtroom, the hospital, the
parks, the schools, the public library, and the
graveyard. Race signs must come down from the
municipal building; Negroes must be given city
jobs above janitor. . . .
HANK
During my trip it sometimes seemed to me a
miracle that Henry Thomas, the Howard
University sophomore I had met the first day of
the Freedom Ride, survives at all. Hank is sassy
and brave— all six feet three of him— and this
combination is not the safest for young Negro
rebels. Once in a church, when the hymn-singing
became leaden, he passed me a note: "Charlotte,
if this goes on I'll just die." When he was arrested
at a bus stop during our ride, the police let him
out of jail alone at night and took him to the
nearest bus station. A group of white men stood
watching him and yelled, "Go in the nigger wait-
ing-room." But Hank went into the white wait-
ing-room, bought candy at a machine, and
walked quickly around the crowd waiting for
him, got into a dump truck driven by a Negro,
flashed seven dollars, and drove away.
Unlike so many of the rebelling Negroes, Hank
puts little stock in religion. When he stays with
his aunt in Georgia she kneels by his bed and
' '*'3t the Almighty guide him to cease
rceation activities-while Hank falls
^'>'' ' 'hen, it seems that since his early
"^y^ ' '1 against authority; he was
born out of wedlock, one of ten children in a
miserably poor Georgia household run by a
drunken stepfather. He worked on road crews
and chopped cotton and learned little in a ram-
shackle school where the work seems to have
consisted chiefly of building maintenance for the
schoolhouse itself.
"In those days," he says, "a Negro would do
anything for a smile from a white man." But
he refused to enter the Saturday night fights on
which the white men bet, and one day he laid
down his hoe and swore he'd never again walk
onto a cotton field. 'What seems to have saved
Hank from serious trouble was a very lively
intelligence— not that he was always a model
pupil. After a high-school chemistry class he and
a friend experimented with free chemical samples
kept in a closet— lacking a laboratory, the teacher
simply read the textbook aloud— and he made
noisy small explosives which emptied the school
when he set thejji off in the locker-room. But
the teachers stuck with him, his marks improved,
his pranks diminished, and finally he was given
a scholarship to Howard. "Most of the boys I
ran with back in Georgia are in jail now— they
did their rebelling all at once. I guess I did
mine in small bits all along."
When I talked to Hank at Howard, and later
on our trip, he Avasn't sure how far he could carry
the nonviolent attitude. "When I'm with the
group and we all have the training, okay. But
when I'm alone, if a white man beat up on me, I
fight. Okay, some of us got to die in this thing
now but I don't want to."
\Vhen I last saw him, he spoke differently.
Our bus had been stormed and burned by whites
at Anniston, Alabama, and Hank had suffered
painful smoke poisoning and been hit on the
head with a billy as well. We gathered for a final
meeting at the house of a militant Birmingham
minister. The living-room was crowded with
newsmen and cameramen, and Hank sat out-
side on the porch swing holding his head. "You
know," he said, "1 don't hate anyone for yester-
day. For the first time I think I see what Martin
Luther King means when he says suffering i.s
redemption. It's easy to say that some of us are
going to suffer if an understanding is to be
reached, but now I think I know, and I'll take
anything to see an end— injuries, crippling, even
death. 1 got to see the world as a place where all
that counts is the individual."
Hank doesn't know what he'll do after gradu-
ation. He thinks of going to Africa, or studying
law, or returning to Georgia. "Wherever I am,
I'll be in politics," he said.
Harper's Magazine, October 1961
EAGER SWARTHMORE
DAVID BOROFF
Among the cognoscenti, there are even
those who rank Swarthmore College above
Harvard. It is a small school in a time of
academic empires, but its claims to superiority
are persuasive. In a study of the collegiate
origins of scholars who attained the Ph.D. or
other distinctions, Swarthmore ranked first for
men in its productivity index. On the Medical
College Admissions Test, Swarthmore students
recently attained a 99th percentile, the highest
possible ranking. The school's division of en-
gineering—the country's smallest accredited
engineering school— ranked seventh in the per-
centage of alumni in Who's Who in Engineering.
Swarthmore graduates contemplate a feast of
abundance tendered by universities and founda-
tions. The Class of 1960 picked up $85,000 in
grants and fellowships, a goodly sum shared by
the 123 out of 200 departing students who were
headed for graduate school. Fourteen won
Woodrow Wilson Fellowships (apprenticeships
for college teaching), making Swarthmore num-
ber one among small colleges. Even among the
giants, this figure was equaled or exceeded by
only eleven institutions. And among academic
people one finds a solid consensus about Swarth-
more: that it is one of our very best schools, that
it has a remarkable capacity for inspiring aca-
demic passion in its students.
By virtue of its imposing credentials, the col-
lege is able to attract a freshman class of almost
terrifying virtuosity. The Class of 1964 (144 boys
and 115 girls) were culled from 2,263 applicants.
Their median score on the College Entrance
Boards was in the upper 600s. Among the fresh-
men there was a strong show of academic and
extracurricular talent: fifteen National Merit
Copyright © 1961 by David Boroff
The students at Swarthmore like to whip up
storms of verbal and animal energy, but
underneath it all David Boroff — an Assistant
Professor of English at New York University-
finds one of the best college programs
available in America. His report will appear
in his new book, "Campus USA,"
to be published by Harper & Brothers.
Scholarship winners, eight class presidents, seven
student-council presidents, twenty-five editors-in-
chief of school publications, and, somewhat
astonishingly, 101 varsity letter winners. (Swarth-
more contradicts the wan stereotype of the
bookish student. Many of her students— male
and female— are athletes, hardy and tireless.)
The college was established in 1864 by one
branch of the Society of Friends, the Hicksites,
who were bent on providing an education "equal
to that of the best institutions of learning in the
country." The founding fathers' philosophy has
a contemporary ring: "What we Americans have
most to fear is a dead level of mediocrity in the
education of our people. Many persons seem to
suppose that a moderate education, if joined
with good common sense, is sufficient for all the
purposes of life. It may be all that is needed for
ordinary occasions, but not for the higher objects
of our existence."
The college was originally housed in Parrish
Hall, a huge, ungainly Victorian pile, which is
still the administrative center, with offices, din-
ing-rooms, and a women's dormitory. But there
are now some forty-four buildings in all, includ-
ing a new science building and a recently opened
women's dormitory. The buildings run from lacy
Gothic to the unrelievedly plain lines of a
Friends Meeting House. The campus, a rural
refuge of three hundred acres surrounded by
well-to-do suburbia (eleven miles southwest of
Philadelphia) has a lovely sweep of meadow and
a stretch of honest-to-goodness woods.
140
Swarthmore has 960 students (500 men and 460
women) and 110 faculty members, which gives it
a luxurious teacher-student ratio. The tone of
the place is intimate, and faculty discussions are
likely to turn on what "works" with a particular
student. The college is assiduously introspective.
While Harvard has an impervious self-assurance,
Swarthmore is in a constant fever of self-ap-
praisal, for few schools have united such disparate
elements.
What is Swarthmore's personality? It is at
once bookish yet high-spirited; Quaker yet mun-
dane with that heavy overlay of sophistication
only the young can muster; inward yet careerist;
bold yet conservative; individualistic yet fiercely
social-minded. "What I like about this place,"
a girl said, "is that you can be listening to
radicals one minute and playing bridge the
next."
Two factors give the college an effervescence
and excitement that all visitors on campus
quickly notice. ("I've never been so drained as I
was at Swarthmore," a lecturer who gets around
campuses remarked.) One is simply the sheer con-
centration of brainy kids. Harvard conveys the
same sense of intellectual plenty— an untamed
precocity which is almost comic when it is not
intimidating. But Harvard boys take fewer
chances intellectually. Swarthmore students have
far more warmth and color and recklessness.
The second factor is the Quaker tolerance of
diversity. There is no unifying ethos at Swarth-
more—except that the life of the mind is good—
and one can find warring camps in a state of
highly vocal co-existence.
THEIR CHERISHED SPLITS
The most celebrated split is that which sep-
arates fraternity men (and their feminine
satellites) and the bohemians whose Holy City is
the Mary Lyon dormitory for men. Swarth-
moreans make dramatic capital out of this
schism. Freshmen like to think that they have
to make an ideological choict— between the gay
insipidity of fraternity life and black-garbed dis-
sidence. The lines are rigidly drawn-at least in
theory. Fraternity men are likely to be athletic,
conservative politically, solid if tame citizens of
Philistia. ("How many regular guys are there
at Swarthmore?" a townie asked a football player.
"About thirty," he answered forlornly.)
The intransigently bohemian males-disheveled,
bearded, and sandaled, given to intellectual and
artistic pursuits, addicted to folk music and
green bof)kbags-are even fewer.
But there are complex modulations to this
neat scheme. At exam time, fraternity men are
prone to let their beards grow. And a fondness
for folk music is very much a part of Swarthmore.
Fraternity men, with the local receptivity to
ideas, will on occasion invite a bohemian to talk
to them about "Individuality and the Dangers of
Fraternity Life." On the other side of the barri-
cades, the bohemian-artistic group shows an un-
expected athletic flair. And one of the deans
remarked, "The kids in blue jeans and beards
who call themselves bohemian will read to the
blind in Overbrook or run square-dancing pro-
grams at Norristown Mental Hospital."
A graduate whom I talked to looked back
nostalgically on what he thought were the
school's great days (only three or four years
distant): "There were fraternity men on one
side, and the others on the other side, and you
knew what you stood for. These days there are
a lot of vocifert)us neutrals who botch up the
ideological lines."
"At some of the large universities," Swarth-
more's President Courtney Smith told me, "you
find your interest group— it could be Arabic or
chess— and you stay with it. You're sealed off
from other groups. At Swarthmore, precisely
because it is small and intimate, you have to de-
fend your interest against many others."
There is a beguiling touch of the zany about
Swarthmore. An engineering student bought a
hearse for use by the Engineers Club— and for
the very best reasons, he argued cogently. Not
only is its carrying capacity superior to that of
most cars but also its motor had not been abused
in dolorous journeys between funeral parlor and
cemetery. In a philosophy class I saw a boy pass
his pipe to a pretty girl, a combed-hair type,
who puffed reflectively a few times, then passed
it back. Up front, the professor lectured on the
mind-body problem.
The Quaker spirit is subtly present, but its
influence is difficult to appraise. The college is
nonsectarian in control but Quaker in tradition.
About 15 per cent of the students come from
Quaker families. The tendency to hold authority
to a minimum (even if students say the mini-
mum is too high), an inclination to think well
of people, an admiration for old-fashioned in-
ner-directed character— all of these may be Quak-
er in origin. The honor accorded kitchen and
custodial employees upon their retirement— an-
nounced in the same fashion as the retirement
of professors— seems to attest to a die-hard
Quaker simplicity. And though the thee's and
thou's of an earlier era have vanished, there are
still traces of Quaker idiom in First Day (Sun-
day) and Collection (assembly).
I attended a Quaker Meeting, which is not,
by the way, an official College activity. Though
the usual opportunities were provided for the
expression of the "inner light," those in attend-
ance seemed reluctant to speak out spontan-
eously. After a long silence, one woman got up
and talked about a visit to a home for unwed
mothers with a curious mixture of Quaker piety
and sociological jargon.
There is a strong centripetal pull on campus,
and the college is curiously isolated— students
rarely go to Philadelphia, only a half-hour away.
Residents of suburban Swarthmore— it is called
The Ville— and the college community view
each other with remote and polite distrust. Tlie
Phoenix, the student newspaper, describes the
town as "the real world" where "police can be
friendly," reflecting the view of former President
Frank Aydelotte, who characterized Swarthmore
as "a town of contented dogs and happy chil-
dren." The students are affronted by the sub-
urb's homogeneity (few Jews and Negroes) and
by its Organization Man blandness. They are
sometimes taunted by local children with the
name "Turkey" (bookworm), or are asked by
adults, "Is it true you have absolutely no stan-
dards of dress?" To many villoiiks (I take the
term from The Phoenix) the college reeks
vaguely of socialism and unbridled sex, al-
though there is also a grudging admiration for
the school's intellectualism. It is possible, too,
that the students, contemplating this trim up-
per-class town, bristle at the image of suburban
Gleichschaltung which awaits them.
The college administration watches the town-
gown relationship morosely. ("One of the pri-
mary aims of the college," The Phoenix quipped,
"is to keep the village happy.") And it has
other headaches. The official philosophy is that
"it values values." Given hundreds of intense
young people, their values, sometimes flamboy-
antly proclaimed and practiced, can be an ad-
ministrative nuisance. The same is true of the
school's philosophy of "individualism," which,
in practice, can prove nettlesome, especially in
a conservative community. (Swarthmore has
been described as radical in ideas and conserva-
tive in social behavior— the latter, assertedly,
is the price the students are expected to pay for
the former.)
The upshot of all this is an unremitting con-
test between students and administration, with
the students complaining of being policed too
much and college officials reluctant to bring into
141
play the apparatus of authority so vulgarly ap-
plied elsewhere. To the outsider the tone of the
college seems briskly libertarian. Swarthmore
was one of the first schools to repudiate the
disclaimer affidavit in the National Defense Ed-
ucation Act and to disengage from the benefits
of that program. When an Assistant Secretary
of the Air Force appeared on campus to discuss
modern weaponry, a letter to the school news-
paper protested his appearance in the light of
the Quaker tradition. He talked— but so have
Linus Pauling, Harry Bridges, and other repre-
sentatives of dissenting groups. The college
jealously protects freedom of inquiry, though an
official report modestly suggests: "This freedom
can best be defended if the invitations to speak-
ers are thoughtfully issued, and if students are
aware of the variety of opinions already sched-
uled to be heard."
PACE-SETTING HONORS
Swarthmore's most imposing quality is its
academic zeal. The administration may
intone grandiosely about the goal of the well-
rounded student (well-rounded on n high lexjel,
it is quick to add), but the truth is that Swarth-
more is simple-mindedly and gloriously bookish.
The impassioned academic life is what attracts
students and also kills them off. (The drop-out
rate is a high 25 per cent as against Harvard's
10 per cent— about half for academic rea-
sons.) "Ours is one of those off-beat colleges,"
a senior observed, "where someone when asked
how he spends his free time may answer in all
honesty, 'I study.' "
About half of Swarthmore's girls go on to
graduate study— a far higher percentage than
at most of the good women's colleges. Unlike
women at many other schools, the girls are not
prone to play down their intellectual talents
for fear of pricing themselves out of the mar-
riage market. At Swarthmore, the men and
women are intellectual peers. During the first
two years, the girls actually get higher grades,
but their performance declines somewhat as
compared to the men's during their last two
years when the marriage pressure may become
grim.
Academic arrangements are a blend of the
advanced and conservative. Swarthmore's Honors
Program was one of the pace-setters of American
educational reform almost four decades ago. On
the other hand, it is ironic that a school which
is so robustly social-minded and international-
no crisis is too remote for the students' sympathy
1
S-atn til more last spring
or indignation— should lack sociology and an-
thropology departments. Moreover, not a single
painting or short story is done as part of course
work. (The campus jumps with creativity, but
it is entirely extracurricular.) Then there are
odd interstices in the curriculum. Swarthmore
never became involved in the enthusiasm for the
Great Books or a comprehensive humanities de-
partment, and more than one student has been
dismayed to discover that in no course on cam-
pus is it possible to study Dante.
Swarthmore students and faculty take pleas-
ure, not unmixed with pain, in their strenuous
academicism. A classics professor who taught
at CohjjTibia related how if he failed to give
ar) assigrmiem at Colmnbia his students, quietly
exultant, would fail to remind him. At Swarth-
more, they would be sure to prod him.
"It's highly competitive," a student said. "No-
body asks what you got on an exam, but it's
there just the same. The academic atmosphere
is what I like, but I don't like being pushed or
dragged. Even on vacation, students will work
six or eight hours a day."
Campus heroes are not merely the A-makers,
but those handy with ideas. A fatal dispersion
of energy may result— perhaps best exempli-
fied by a pretty girl who said, "I've been trying
to study for a physics exam all week, but I've
been preoccupied with a philosophic problem."
A Radcliffe girl who visited Swarthmore
summed up the difference: "At Swarthmore I
get the feeling that a student is encouraged to
believe that his ideas have significance. At
Radcliffe you feel that everything has been said
and that you're hopelessly naive."
All the intellectual hustle begets a mocking
reaction. A sign on a Parrish Hall bulletin
board magisterially announced the formation of
the Peripheral Information Society for the Ad-
vancement of Nonspecialized Knowledge— the
first speaker. Hubris Johnson, an authority on
such things as the average height of mango
trees.
The first two years of study at Swarthmore
center around a general-education program re-
quiring all students to take courses in such
areas as the humanities, the social sciences, and
the natural sciences before they go on to spe-
cialize. This is a fairly recent innovation, de-
signed to guard against intellectual chaos and
assure a core of common learning. The great
turning point for the better students comes
when they are admitted to the college's cele-
brated Honors Program during their junior and
senior years. Back in the 'twenties Frank Ay-
delotte pioneered in developing this system of
independent study in order to break what he
called "the academic lockstep." After more than
three decades, it remains a model that very few
colleges can match.
About 40 per cent of Swarthmore's upper-
classmen take Honors. Instead of the usual four
courses, carried by other juniors and seniors,
an Honors student carries two seminars each
semester. The eight seminars he will complete
—in no more than three fields- are expected
to fall into a coherent academic pattern, in effect
comprising a major field and two minor fields,
e.g., literature, philosophy, history. The ration-
ale of the program is that instead of the usual
one-way transmission of knowledge from teacher
143
to stiulent, the ycnmg scholar should work on
his own in areas that have intellectual mgency
lor hini, siiould achieve some depth and sophis-
tication in those areas, and should share his
experiences with a small comminiity of scholars.
LEVELS OF MEANING
Each seminar meets once a week, often in
I he professor's home, for a session of at
least three hours. The groups are small— usu-
ally six or seven students— anti though some
seminars tlo assign readings, the core of the
process is discussion of the students' papers.
These are subjectetl to merciless appraisal, which
goes on and on long past the allotted three
hours. The only break is provided by the fac-
idty wile who interrupts the gladiators with
coffee and cake.
The seminars seemed to me to approach an
authentic (ommunity of scholars, since not
even examinations— that ugly trauma that
separates professor from student— tlisturb its
iniity. At the end of his senior year the Honors
student takes eight three-hour written exams
prejjared by outside examiners. ( "Discuss Con-
vention in Renaissance poetry. Whenever we
put two emotions in juxtaposition, we have
what we can properly call an idea. Illustrate
from several poems by Donne. . . .") The ex-
aminers appear later for a follow-up oral quiz.
(They are often so impressed by Swarthmore's
intellectual muscle that they send their own
children there.) The student and his professor,
therefore, are intellectual partners who make
common cause. Dr. Daniel Hoffman, a gifted
|)oet and scholar, acknowledged that many of
his ideas come out of seminar discussions.
The Honors Program has its critics. A former
Swarthmore student, now a professor elsewhere,
asked testily: "Is it better to have a group of
students talk about something they know very
little about than to have a structured lecture by
a professor who knows a lot?" There are those
who object to the cult of Aydelotte ("Aydelotte
was God, and we are his prophets"). Others
complain that the seminars are either too well-
organized and thus differ little from course
work, or, on the contrary, too flexible and dis-
cursive.
The students groan about the exams at the
end of senior year: "Two years work in ten
days . . . terror and breakdown!" Certainly, the
Honors Program is a kind of intellectual Olym-
piad for most students. And the experience of
a girl, while doing graduate work in journalism.
was revealing. Asked to do a practice piece
on a UN committee, she researched seventeenth-
century jjiecursors of international co-operation
so exhaustively that her professor was provoked
to say: "Fine, but are you writing for the man
in (he subway or for the faculty of Swarthmore
College?" No remark could have pleased her
more.
I attended a seminar in modern European
literatme. Sitting on a couch were two girls
with unkempt hair, bobby socks— and flawless
manners. A male student, resplendently bearded,
was wearing a tie and jacket (almost-mandatory
dress for seminars) and army combat boots. The
professor opened the discussion with the ques-
tion: "By what means does Dostoevski imple-
ment his nonconceptual communication in The
Brothers Knrnmozov?" The discussion flowed—
some of it mere verbiage, some of it impressively
formulated. One boy described Smerdyakov as
"a kind of diseased limb." "Yes," his professor
answered, "lie is the degeneration of the life-
affirming impulse."
At a modern poetry seminar, T. S. Eliot was
csoterically analyzed. ("What I meant by the
third level of meaning ..." a student began.)
The seminar papers ranged from inept imita-
tions of Sewanee Review to highly perceptive
textual analyses. Along with solid scholarly
work, there were the usual sins of precocity—
overingenious formulations, shrill pedantry, and
turgidity of style.
In the poetry seminar, Professor Hoffman,
with a poet's eye for precision, criticized a line
that included "an offshoot that is geared . . ."
The student bristled. "That is my diction," he
muttered politely. "That's all very well," Hoff-
man countered, affable and firm, "but it's unten-
able."
A SPORTING CHANCE FOR LOVE
If Swarthmore students are ardent about things
many college students are indifferent to—
the world of ideas— they also seem to make a
point of their indifference to social life, the
vital center in the lives of most college students.
A Saturday night date, for example, is not de
riguei/r, and students will casually get together
at Somerville, the snack bar, and pick up com-
panions for a movie. Nor are there restrictions
with respect to class and age. A senior girl
loses no status by going out with a suitable
freshman boy. There are the usual dances, but
as a student summed up, "Some people think
they're fun, others go ironically, and then there
i
144
are those who won't even get out of their
sneakers."
Nevertheless, spring comes as explosively to
Swarthmore as anywhere else. "In the spring-
time," a girl said, "there's the great domestic
idyll— couples everywhere." But they must
run an obstacle course. Cars are outlawed on
campus except for use by organizations. Visit-
ing in the dorms is limited to Saturday and
Sunday afternoons— "It's less immoral during the
day." a boy said— with the door open six inches.
Then there are the Lodges, social rooms in
what used to be sorority houses before sororities
voted themselves out of existence. Students,
even couples, may reserve these rooms for a
few hours to study over a cup of coffee or to
prepare a meal. Marriage on campus is vir-
tually proscribed. One of the marrying parties
must leave school— unless they are both over
twenty-one, have their parents' consent, and
are exceedingly good students. For amorous dal-
liance, therefore, this leaves only a few possibili-
ties: climbing into dorms— a perilous business
in defiance of college regulations— or, weather
permitting, Crum Woods, a popular source of
local folklore.
One of the issues separating fraternity men
and bohemians concerns the opportunities for
privacy in fraternity houses— often called "lit-
tle dens of immunity." This is hotly denied by
both fraternity men and the administration.
However, when I visited a fraternity house one
afternoon, under a photograph in full color of
Miss Playmate of the Month, a couple hastily
disengaged themselves from an embrace as we
entered.
Fraternities seem to have a distinctive cast
at Swarthmore. Discrimination is far less fla-
grant than in fraternities elsewhere— one of
the five local chapters has already disaffiliated
nationally-and the hazing is free from sadism.
"It's stylish to criticize fraternities," a boy re-
marked. And some young men even join with
reformist intent: they hope to make the fra-
ternities go local or even liquidate themselves.
In any case, fraternity men and bohemians-
and those who rally around no ideological ban-
ner-meet amiably on the playing fields of
Swarthmore. For a school so enchanted with
intellect, it is astonishingly athletic. Fifty-five
per cent of its male students participate in
eleven intercollegiate sports including football,
and the teams are able if aseptically amateur.
Football is not king at Swarthmore. Soccer, la-
crosse, and cross-country seem to arouse a special
ardor. And the girls, too, show the same afTniity
for locker room and sweat shirt, with 35
per cent of them on teams. For no obvious rea-
son, they are invincible swimmers and have
won countless meets.
DOVECOTE FOR THE FACULTY?
By all accounts, the faculty at Swarthmore
is superb. At a time when faculty-raiding
is the big sport of academia and universities
dangle fancy laboratories and gifted graduate
students under the twitching nostrils of pro-
fessors, how does Swarthmore keep its best
people? One answer is that Swarthmore has
jacked up its salaries— about 67 per cent since
1954. Salaries now range from $5,400 to |17,000,
with the average for assistant professors, $7,500;
associate professors, $9,600; and full professors,
$12,700. Fringe benefits are enticing: leave as
often as every four years, either a half year at
full pay, or a f«ll year at half pay. The teach-
ing load is nine hours a week in the humanities
and social sciences, and twelve hours in the
sciences which have laboratory sessions— no
cinch for a conscientious teacher but not crush-
ing either.
Although academic excellence is a condition
of employment, the yardstick of publication is
not applied coarsely at Swarthmore. "Large uni-
versities because of their size and impersonality
can't evaluate their faculty except by counting
bibliographical items," a college spokesman ex-
plained. "It makes professors run out to get
quick results. We don't have to do that here."
They do publish, however, in reputable schol-
arly journals, and the research that goes on,
moreover, takes place virtually in the students'
laps.
But the principal attraction is an intellectually
bracing atmosphere. "It's a happy cycle," Presi-
dent Smith said; "strong students draw strong
faculty, who, in turn, draw strong students."
Faculty conferences are a lively blend of
Roberts Rule of Order and Quaker Meeting.
If a vote is close, the discussion continues until
greater harmony is attained. At Swarthmore
one just falls in the academic line anywhere.
"If there are young Turks on the faculty," a
young professor said, "it's merely on procedural
matters." A gifted young professor, who was
not given tenure and has since moved on, ex-
pressed a harsh minority view. "There is an
Establishment here," he said truculently. "What
counts is family, manners, chic— knowing which
books are discussed in the Literary Supplement
of the London Times. There is a measure of
145
arrogance and self-satisfaction here that can be
infuriating. Swarthmore isn't the only college
that really means A when it bestows one."
The college did not keep one of its most
scintillating professors, described by The Phoe-
nix as "a charismatic culture hero." Nimble in
disputation and shatteringly handsome, this
philosophy jirofessor was, implausibly, a kind of
modern Renaissance man interested in the philo-
sophy of science, car design, psychoanalysis, and
psychic phenomena. An articulate spokesman
for dissenting views, he was described by one
student as "the new God in the Pantheon since
he dethroned the old Gods." This may be a
case of life imitating legend too faithfully. He
was so richly in the Swarthmore grain— so
venturesome, buoyant, and intellectually un-
compromising—that it was difficult for him to
avoid becoming a kind of campus gadfly.
Some of the faculty argue that the admissions
j)olicy, though it is under constant review, is
unsound. The children of alumni (10 per cent
of the student body) allegedly drag down the
academic level. (They tend to do a little below
average.) These critics assert that talk about
"a balanced commtmity" is merely a device for
circumventing a purely intellectual measure of
admission. One professor derogated the "senti-
mental extravagance" of the personal interview.
"We've had remarks like, 'He's a fine American
boy,' " he said. "Hell, we don't care about that.
We want to know if he can work— not if he
has a crew-cut."
Swarthmore likes to see its deans as "amateur
administrators," with one foot firmly planted in
the classroom, and in fact it has managed to
avoid much of the ponderous administrative
apparatus which plagues so many colleges. (It
has no department of personnel service: counsel-
ing is rather informal; and the deans are people
who read books.) Moreover, there is no dean
of faculty— on the grounds that professors need
no buffer between the president and themselves.
Dr. Courtney Smith, Swarthmore's able presi-
dent since 1953, has had a productive tenure. A
former Rhodes Scholar from Harvard and an
English professor at Princeton, Smith has raised
salaries, built up endowment, and energetically
maintained the college's tradition of excellence.
He is good-looking, shockingly youthful, crew-
cut, and has a cool, unblinking composure. (In-
tensity is more in the Swarthmore style.) One
professor suggested that Smith has been, on
balance, "a force for conservatism," another
The Common Predicament
TEACHERS are often dismayed to find at the end of a term that though they can,
according to the bell curve they grade by, award five A's, only two
or three students are worthy of this distinction. The teachers have mistaken
stupefaction for attentiveness. Their students have never mastered the knack of
thinking and expressing themselves but the fault is not chiefly the students*.
Their high-school education has not adequately prepared them for mastering the
methodology of the higher academic world into which parents have by hook and crook
managed to send them.
Faced with the naivet^ of the college freshman, the college instructor does
nothing about it. He does not even motivate or orient the undergraduate in his
very new studies. A college class large or small should be a quest for values, led
by the teacher because he is the one most skilled and knows the terrain better.
Instead it is but a burrowing amid ideas, symbols, and facts which seem to lie
scattered beyond the students' ken. When final term papers are in, many of them
deplorably late, the instructor assumes that most of his students are dead wood.
This is definitely not true, nor is it true that his students have been undermined
by personal problems. They have simply been cast afloat without any stars to steer
by or pilots to point them out. The professors, all except a few, behave like
stokers not pilots. The result is that they train stokers not pilots. Because of
this predicament, many young people miss their calling, and many more graduate from
college condemning scholarship.
—From a letter to Harper's by Judy Roses, Barnard, 1960
146
argued that the new faculty prosperity had
elements in it of "a demeaning paternalism."
But most felt that he has been vigorous and
successful with a sound instinct for giving his
professors lots of autonomy.
TALK, BUT NOT ALL TALK
When they deplore their apathy, Swarth-
more students do so with great verve.
They write polemics on a variety of issues and
stick them on the bulletin boards, or they tack
up manifestoes in firm expectation that some-
one will rise to the challenge. (And someone
always does. These exchanges can go on for
weeks— with marginal notations by intellectual
kibitzers.) The Phoenix has little of the cool
disdain or imperturbability of the Harvard
Crimson; it is often stormy, and sometimes
can be howlingly funny. And nowhere in the
country do students write such long, erudite,
and doggedly argumentative letters to the editor.
What is it they care about? There are first
the public issues— nuclear policy, sit-in dem-
onstrations, and civil rights— that have recently
shaken up college youth all over the country.
Swarthmore students have been in the vanguard
of all these movements. A busload of students
participated in the Youth March for Integra-
tion, another group attended Congressional com-
mittee hearings on the Vienna Youth Festival,
and students picketed Woolworth's during the
sit-in demonstrations in the South. Locally, a
student committee sat with Negro families dur-
ing the troubled time when they moved into
an all-white suburban community. And one
mettlesome girl on a visit to Cuba, marched
right into the headquarters of the secret police,
who proudly showed her how clean the cells
were.
But political action these days seems to in-
volve more than bare-knuckled idealism; it
has, in fact, a sophisticated flavor. Some Swarth-
more students are not satisfied with the mere
thrust and shove of student demonstrations.
Schooled in the techniques of power, operators
as well as visionaries, they advise themselves to
be more expedient and politic. Picketing Wool-
worth's was followed by a meeting to discuss
its efficacy. A student leader dismissed the
March for Integration as "merely inflammatory"
and explained his strategy for applying pres-
•surc at sensitive points. Swarthmore is the head-
quarters of Albatross, an intercollegiate maga-
zine which puhlislu copies of political letters
wriiiru by studern -wl ..,,,(,., ,,,,r^ ^^ ^j^,^ -^^
public life. These letters may become, it is
hoped, effective social instruments, which public
officials will not easily ignore.
Local affairs provoke rough-and-tumble dis-
cussion. The fraternity men and the antis be-
labor each other periodically. There is grumb-
ling about mandatory attendance at Collection,
and there are self-styled conscientious objectors.
A perfervid discussion was unleashed when Pres-
ident Smith, in a Collection talk, urged the
students to dress more attractively. "Smith
wants to create a kind of Quaker Princeton," a
boy said. In any event, the columns of The
Phoenix churned for weeks thereafter.
A more somber note was struck by a spate of
editorials in Tfie Phoenix expressing horror at
a number of thefts at the school. An alumna
recalled an episode at a bar in a nearby town
when her companion, a Swarthmore student,
deliberately picked up the hat of an innocent
man standing nearby. .Another drinking com-
panion then emptied out his pockets and
proudly displayed six ashtrays which had been
deftly appropriated.
"There's a kind of innocent amorality about
some of the students," she explained. "They're
so bright, they feel they can achieve anything,
do anything. When they get out into the world,
they have to get used to restraints again."
Such unfortunate occurrences— which get
less notice in a larger community— have to be
measured against what seems to be a genuine
desire by many of the students to be socially
useful, the stern morality of the college's con-
scientious objectors, or the young couple seri-
ously determined to create a Utopian colony in
British Columbia.
The casual visitor to Swarthmore is struck
most of all, perhaps, by its unexpected ebul-
lience. But, for all the college's special man-
nerisms, one can, I think, best sum it up by
pointing out what it is not: it is not a depen-
dency of a great university, dominated by pow-
erful departments for whom the teaching of
undergraduates is a neglected chore; it is not a
place where students come to study "business ad-
ministration" or "education," their eyes firmly
on the immediate future; it is not a convenient
step on the ladder of social prestige, the center of
four pleasant years interrupted by anxious regur-
gitation of packaged lectures in perfunctory
examinations. It is a place where college stu-
dents are expected to take ideas seriously, and
study them rigorously, and a good many do,
eagerly. And this makes Swarthmore all too rare.
Harper's Magazine, October 1961
!
THE WASTED CLASSROOM
It is understandable that there should be so
little fundamental criticism ol our colleges
and universities. Most original thinking still
comes from them, but this is less because they are
such good places for it than because there is
hardly any place else with even the minor ad-
vantages they afford. Few students are unbiased
or competent critics. Journalists too often today
reproduce others' views rather than develop their
own— and the views they would reproduce on
colleges and universities would be those muurally
of the "experts"— presidents and admissions of-
ficers and professors. Perhaps most important,
most people are too worried about getting their
children into college to be concerned much about
A'hat goes on once they get there.
But there are extremely serious problems in the
colleges. And despite the millions of dolhirs now
being spent on research in higher education, we
are not doing much to make college education
more than a huge boondoggle— which is what
most of it is today.
From where do I draw my evidence for this
view? Aside from my own experience as a stu-
dent (City College in New York, the University
of Pennsylvania, Columbia University), I have
been a college teacher: I taught sociology for a
year at the University of California in Berkeley,
a year at Bennington College in Vermont, a half-
year at Smith College— a crude sampling of our
better universities and colleges. I have lectured
or engaged in research at a half-dozen more col-
leges and universities, and have friends Avith
whom I have talked about teaching and its prob-
lems at almost every important university in the
country. Of course I am aware of exceptions, but
I am confident that my general conclusion about
college holds.
NATHAN GLAZER
A great deal of college '^teaching' is merely a
futile way of passing the time, in Nathan Glazer's
view, and he charges that academic people have
shown precious little cohcern about it.
Educated at City College and the University
of Pennsylvania, Mr. Glazer has taught at
Berkeley, Bennington, Smith, and Columbia. He is
the co-author, ivith David Riesman, of ''The Lonely
Crowd" and "Faces in the Crowd," and his book
on "The Social Basis of American Communism"
ivas recently published by Harcourt, Brace.
And that conclusion, a sober and not extremist
one, is that a very large part of what students and
teachers do in the best colleges and universities
is sheer waste. It is not particularly vicious waste,
except insofar as it dulls minds and irritates and
frustrates students and teachers. Nor does it
prevent useful and necessary things from being
done in the colleges. But it is worth speaking
about the waste, not only because it is vast, but
because, despite the common awareness that this
is so, so little is done abotit it.
There are, I found, three main sources of waste
ill college teaching: the classroom system, the
examination system, the departmental system.
No doubt certain college subjects do require
both classroom teaching and as many classroom
hours as are now given to them. But this is not
the case with most college subjects. As to what
goes on in the sciences, I cannot say— the fact that
the radios work, the bridges stand, and the atom
bombs explode, that this complicated technical
system works, suggests that teaching in the sci-
ences and technical subjects is not waste, and I
will say nothing about them (although I suspect
a great deal could, and should, be done to im-
prove the teaching of fundamental scientific con-
cepts to nonspecialists). But I know how classes
in literature, in history, in political science and
psychology and anthropology and sociology are
conducted. In these subjects a single classic mode
of organization dominates our schools. Classes
meet for three hours a Aveek, some for more, some
for less. These classes are conducted by the
teacher in a lecture-discussion style— that is, in-
148
formal lecturing (or in large classes, more formal
lecturing), which is often accompanied by some
"discussion" initiated by students or teachers. In
fact, during most of the class time, the teacher
talks to the students.
There are, however, few college subjects in the
humanities and the social sciences in which forty-
five hours of the teacher lecturing and the stu-
dents listening can be useful. Perhaps some
individual courses may require groups of fifteen
to 125 students to meet three hours a week for
fifteen weeks with a teacher. But when we realize
that most students are expected to take four or
five such courses, and most teachers to give three
of them, it is perfectly clear what actually goes
on. Teachers can perhaps (if they are good) give
one or two series of good lectures a year; stu-
dents, unless they are brilliant, may have some-
thing to contribute to an occasional discussion.
As a matter of fact, however, most teachers give
lectures that are not as good as the average texts
in their fields-which are not very good-and
most students have not read enough or heard
enough to make the kind of contribution that is
worth making in a class of fifty students. But
both accept with amazingly little complaint the
strait jacket of the "course."
Now it is true that this strait jacket is broken
at certain times— particularly by seminars in
which smaller groups meet only once a week
with teachers. The seminar system is an enor-
mous step forward: (a) the teacher generally lec-
tures only once a week (and can consequently
lecture better), and (b) the students work in small
groups, on a single subject, and their personal
confusion about some matter— which is normally
suppressed or, if raised, is a waste of time in a
large class— can be carefully dealt with in a smal
group. More important, the students have a bet
ter chance to discover that true education car
only result from their own attempts to organia
and clarify a problem, something which is seldon
encouraged by lectures to large classes which reac
textbooks. i
In other words, the seminar is the obvious an(
proper model for education in the humanitic
and social sciences. But it is rare. It is generall
reserved for the graduate school and the gradual
149
students (as ii only they really have to learn any-
thing); it is available only to seniors in most
colleges, and even then is often reserved tor
honors students (again, as it only they need to
learn).
But let us come back to the problem of the
course meeting for forty-five hours a semester
(and never forget— there are four or five of these
for each student, two or three, in the best schools,
for each teacher, and quite often four or even
five). The advantage of talking or lecturing to
someone is that he g&ts something in a form he
cannot get from reading a book or listening to
the radio or looking at television. If lectin ing is
to be wortlnvhile it should be jicrsonal, fresh,
original. Perhaps at the beginning of Einopean
university education, students were willing to
listen to the same lectme repeated year after year
because books were in manuscript and rare, and
one in effect had to record one's own book in the
form of notes from the lips of the teacher. Per-
haps too in an earlier epoch there was the feeling
that knowledge was esoteric and should be com-
mimicated orally. Ob\iously such considerations
no longer prevail, although thousands of students
still scrawl endless pages of notes, often while sit-
ting in a vacant daze.
This is not to say that there are no justifica-
tions at all for lecturing. There are teachers who
are in effect writing their book as they lecture—
if it is an important book (like the books Hegel
was writing), then scholars will come to listen,
rather than wait for the book itself. On the con-
tinent today a course of lectures, I imderstand,
is often this book in process— it is the work that
a man is doing, being presented to minds ready
to understand and profit from it. And it can be
argued that lectming has its value as stimulation
:nnl entertainment— the art of lecturing is one
that every academician appreciates, and that
many students do too, and it certainly has a
place in the imiversity.
.\ teacher can indeed perform useful func-
tions in his lectines: he may argue with what the
students have been given to read; he may sup-
plement it or arrange it for them. But he does
not need forty-five hours a semester to do this—
the students woidd be better off reading more
books, thinking more, working more, and taking
fewer notes. I have heard a lot of lectines in my
lifetime as a student, researcher, and teacher, and
I would ask college teachers to honestly consider
in how many courses a dozen good lectures would
not do all that could be done— in the form of
lecturing— ior a class.
But the timetable traditionally called for forty-
fi\e hoius, and now the students expect it, ad-
ministrations demand it, and even teachers have
become convinced there's no harm in it, although
many are hard put to fill up the forty-five hours
usefully. Hardly anyone thinks of beginning at
the beginning, forgetting the system, and decid-
ing when and where this form of course organiza-
tion is best.
In the sciences, with their special laboratory
periods, the courses are somewhat better ar-
ranged. And recently, one of the worst victims
of the standard course arrangement, the teaching
of languages, has also been freeing itself from
the three-hours-a-week standard. But no such
revolution in the arrangement of the course
seems imminent in the social sciences and hu-
manities, though the need is jirst as great.
THE COLD HAND OF CATECHISM
Fortunately for the system this first skeleton
is ]ji()j)ped up by a second— the examination
system. If there is no other way of making fruit-
ful use of forty-five hours of class time, at least
one can use this time to prepare the students for
an e(jually fruitless practice required by the sys-
tem—the examinations. Once again I remind the
reader that I have limited myself to the humani-
ties and social sciences. In technical subjects-
sciences, mathematics, languages— subjects which
develop specific skills and transmit (for the mo-
ment) a fixed body of laws, principles, and proce-
dures, examinations are not only possible but
necessary. One can arrange a language (I mean
in learning it as a skill to use— not its literatine)
or a science or mathematical discipline into sec-
tions of hierarchal levels of complexity so that
one must pass a test in step one before taking
step two, and so on.
But in the humanities and the social sciences
this kind of ordering often is literally not pos-
sible. I recall once being asked by the college
administration what were the "prerequisites"
for two courses I was going to teach in sociology.
Since the students had to take Math I before
Math II, it was assumed that Sociology I— what-
ever that is— must come before Sociology II. But
in fact I saw no reason why the students could
not take the courses I was giving— one on
.American ethnic groups, another on cities and
their problems— without having taken any other
course in sociology. (Of course, it may be usefid
and illuminating to have studied one aspect of
philosophy or history, or literatine, or the social
sciences, before another; but this is not a pre-
requisite in the way Math I is a prerequisite.)
150
The nature of examinations in the humanities
and the social sciences must be different. For
what are the examinations to contain? We do
not transmit fixed bodies of law, principle, or
skill in which students can be drilled and then
examined by a simple and unambiguous test.
Plenty of information is transmitteti, but, in
general, the mastery of pure facts or methods is
not the essential skill in question. The aim in
these disciplines is understanding, appreciation,
discrimination, reasoning; and drill in them
is only possible if they are taught badly, in
catechistic fashion. When drill occurs in the
social sciences and the humanities— as it often
does— the teachers and students are likely to
feel that they are still in high school, and they
are right.
I have been told that if you ask a Soviet phi-
losophy student what pragmatism is— or who
Dewey or William James was— he can recite to
you the definitions and brief one-sentence ac-
counts from a Soviet philosophical dictionary.
It is possible to drill the Soviet students in these
subjects only because they are not learning them.
And once again, we see the cold hand of the
medieval university in the notion of examina-
tions in the humanities and social sciences, for
there too one could be drilled catechistically in
received knowledge. But how silly to ask for
the "right" answers to questions about poems
or complicated movements in history or litera-
ture or complex social problems! However, one
teaching skeleton props up the next. Since
teachers are required to give courses and grades,
they too often run their courses by feeding out
neat interpretations which can be properly re-
gurgitated at exam times, and marked "right."
Certainly not all courses are conducted like
this. In some colleges, the requirements for
grades are met by something far more adequate
than the usual examinations— the student's own
work. He is asked to apply what he learns from
reading and discussion to the analysis of a piece
of literature or the consideration of a problem,
and in answering such an essay question the
student may theoretically have an opportunity
for a modulated presentation of a subject which
catches uj) some of its complexity.
But the matter is not so simple. Many of the
elementary courses in college are given in large
lecture rooms, supplemented by discussion groups
conducted by graduate students.' How can the
essay questions presented to large classes be
graded so that equality and justice can prevail?
What often happens is that factual c|uestions are
presented in essay form. The graduare students
or assistants who administer and mark the tests
get together and decide that in answering a par-
ticular question a student will have to refer to,
say, four or five points, each to be given so much
credit. This settled, they begin plowing through
the stacks of papers.
But how can this bureau- ratic system of mark-
ing take account of what i^ essentially important
in any essay— understanding, a general grasp of
the material, a capacity to see it freshly and
originally? For teachers of the sciences, engineer-
ing, and languages, these qualities, of course,
may not be essential. They want the students to
get it right. But what good teacher in the
humanities merely wants it "right"— wants, in
effect, a textbooky reproduction of his lecture
which will he forgotten in a few weeks? Since the
teacher is, in fact, forced to lecture, and forced
to give examinations and grades, he will too
often settle for this and could not in all justice
give it a bad mark— but it is not what he is
looking for. If it is, he is a bad teacher.
There is an obvious answer to this problem.
For the examination, there could be substituted
the demanding paper, the job of work, just as
for the class there could be substituted the semi-
nar. And yet, just as the seminar is something
special and reserved for the graduate student,
so too the paper is something special— the student
may do one, but he still generally must take a
meaningless examination, and somehow it must
be graded. Since the system demands grades, no
one questions them— and no one asks whether
it really was worth it to have spent all that time
deciding the marks for a hundred students.
(Suppose this time was spent in going over a
student's research paper with him— something
that is seldom done.)
Observing the examination system in opera-
tion, I have become more and more persuaded
that it is fundamentally unjust to the student,
for it assumes that the student is being graded
for his work in the course. There is a certain
rough truth to this when technical subjects, sci-
entific skills, languages, and the like, are being
studied. In the social sciences and humanities,
this is simply not so. The student's grades re-
flect his general ability to use language, to
organize, to think rapidly, at least as much as
they show what he has gained from the course.
Indeed, after working in schools where the
atmosphere is df)minaic(l by the rituals of ex-
aminations and grades, I have often thought
that it would be useful to give the examination
the first day of the course and get that stupidity
out of the way. This would at least turn the
151
attention of the students to the substance of the
course itself. For in fact, as the system now
operates in most colleges, those who are gifted
in the art of taking exams— who can write flu-
ently, think quickly, regurgitate systematically—
will generally do well in any case, and the re-
lation of the amount of time and interest in-
vested in the course to final grades is often
accidental.
The entire concept of college examinations,
in short, needs radical review. Even when stu-
dents taking courses in the humanities and so-
cial sciences are asked challenging essay ques-
tions, and marked carefully, their performance
must depend not simply on the specific matter
that has been presented to them but on the en-
tire world of reading and experience and percep-
tion they bring to the subject. In effect, they
are being tested not on the specific course but
on the sum of their work in the broad area of
knowledge in question. Why bother, then, with
specific course examinations and grades— why not
give the student a limited number of general
tests toward the end of his college career, with
a few over-all grades? If colleges emphasized in-
tensive reading and seminars rather than lectures
—and individual papers rather than sterile course
exams— this kind of examination would seem
natural— if examinations were required at all.
SHORTCHANGING THE STUDENTS
Finally, we come to the third evil of college
teaching today— the departments. If the
classroom system needs grades to justify its ex-
istence, it also needs the departmental system to
fill up the class time and decide what to ask on
the examinations. Once again, let us divide what
is necessary and useful from its distortion. The
departments of knowledge have a long and hon-
orable history. To be a member of a department
means that a man owes his loyalty to his field
of knowledge as well as to his university. Indeed,
the department, or rather the discipline (which
is expressed in the form of the department in
each college or university), is more important
to him generally than the school in which he
happens to teach. He may shift schools but
scarcely ever will he be able to shift departments.
His advancement, within his college or from a
job in one college to another, will depend not
on his virtues as a teacher (who is to judge that?)
but on his standing in his discipline, and this
standing is measured by (a) his doctoral degree
(granted by a group of people who have such
degrees in the same discipline); (b) his publica-
tions (in the journals of his discipline); and
(c) his research grants (given by persons drawn
from his discipline). And of course he has been
trained in that discipline, in a graduate school.
What this means is that it is much easier for
a man to think of himself as a psychologist, a
historian, a sociologist, a classicist, a specialist
in Elizabethan drama than as someone who is
engaged in liberal education. And he is more
concerned in communicating his discipline to
the students than in educating them. Obviously
this is a large and general charge and there are
exceptions. But since it is the discipline that has
prestige, the professor is oriented generally to
what is most characteristic of the discipline. This
means the newest thinking in his specialty, the
most abstract concepts, the things about which
scholars do research and publish papers. In
psychology, for example, he would think he was
engaged in the worst kind of sellout if he paid
attention to the psychological problems that
concern the students rather than to those that
concern psychologists.
In effect, the making of scholars in the gradu-
ate schools, while it does produce some good
scholars, certainly makes many poor teachers.
But there are more pernicious effects of the sys-
tem of departments than the role of the disci-
pline itself. There is first of all the competition
among the departments, for status, for students,
for prestige. This means that there is constant
bickering over how many courses a student must
be required to take in this or in that subject.
And the central concern of such arguments, un-
fortunately, is not what the student needs for a
good education (though certainly such a moti-
vation does play a role), but the interests of the
department: Can we require fewer courses in our
department than others require in their depart-
ments? Can we accept the fact that our disci-
pline plays a less essential role in education than
others? (The answer is tisually no— departments
fiercely insist on equal status.) Can we (and
this is a most important consideration) accept
the fact that if we allow this or that course to be
dropped from the list of requirements, we will
have to let a man go, or not be able to make a
new appointment?
These questions are the very stuff of academic
life. The question of building and teaching a
curriculum relevant to the needs of the college-
educated citi/en is far less piessing.
Departmentalization thus means that liberal
education is hurt in another and crucial way-
educational programs that cannot be fitted into
the departmental scheme are shortchanged. Ev-
152
eiyoiie knows ihat sociology, anthropology, so-
cial psychology, political science, and history^
today deal in large part with a common subject
m.iiier. But joint courses in this general field
must usually be conducted by people whose pri-
mary loyalty is to their discipline. Indeed, it is
almost impossible to find distinguished people
who are ready to devote themselves to inter-
tlepartmental courses in the social sciences. Pro-
lessor Lewis Feuer, who conducts such a joint
course in the social sciences at the University
ol California in Berkeley, is able to transcend
these silly battles between disciplinary represent-
atives, in part because he is a philosopher; Pro-
fessor David Riesman, who gives a general course
in the social sciences at Harvard, is also able to
transcend them in part, because he has been for-
mally trained in none of the competing dis-
ciplines. (He is a lawyer who trained himself
in them.) But even when one finds such rare
individuals to take over the so-called interdis-
ciplinary courses, they are hampered in finding
assistants and associates— for all advancement,
as 1 have pointed out, is made through achieve-
ment in the disciplines. And if a graduate
student or professor should devote himself to
acquiring and teaching what everyone agrees is
most important for a liberal education— the broad
grounding that is common to a number of disci-
plines—how would he achieve advancement?
The predictable result of departmeniali/ation
—and 1 have not even begun to analy/e the rea-
sons for the strength of the departments— has
been that the great experiments in liberal edu-
cation of the 'twenties and 'thirties have been
grinding to a close.
Let us see what has happened. For many years
the University of Chicago gave perhaps the best
undergraduate education in the United States.
Departments were entirely abolished in the Col-
lege and all students were required to take broad
courses in the Social Sciences (sociology, anthro-
pology, political science, economics, etc.); the
Humanities (drama, fiction, poetry, philosophy,
etc.); the Natural Sciences (physics, biology, geol-
ogy, astronomy, etc.); as well as Mathematics.
Mu(h of the instruction took place in seminars.
It emphasized the intensive reading of original
texts (not textbooks), and some of the most dis-
tinguished scholars in the University were willing
to fonduci small classes in the College. The ad-
mirable premise here was that the college-edu-
cated (iti/CM should be exposed tf) important
ideas and methods in the major fields of knowl-
edge, whatever his ultimate choice of specialty,
within the university or witfiovu. Bm hdiv the
College is succumbing to the power of research-
oriented departments, and it is becoming more
traditional in its approach.
Similarly, the Contemporary Civilization
Course of Columbia College— another famous
attempt at interdepartmental education— recently
abandoned its second year. And, as Christopher
Jencks' article in this supplement makes clear,
Harvard's once ambitious General Education
courses have failed to challenge the domination
of its departments.
Indeed, as one looks over the American college
scene, it becomes clear that American education
has never been more conservative than it is
today. Why is this so? It is not because the ex-
periments in changing the undergraduate pro-
gram have failed. It cannot be said that the
students at Antioch, Bennington, and Sarah
Lawrence are worse educated than those from
more traditional schools. Xor have general-edu-
cation courses at Columbia, Harvard, and Chi-
cago produced inferior students. Quite the con-
trary. What has happened is that the emphasis
on achievement in the traditional departmental
disciplines has become nearly inesistible. In
recent years it has been reinforced by the enor-
mous research funds which have been made avail-
able to the departments by governinent, industry,
and foundations. As a rcsiUt, the ntunbers and
effectiveness of those men and women who might
be interested in new approaches to undergrad-
uate education have been radically reduced. For
a young scholar to devote time, thought, and
energy to developing general-education pro-
grams may well involve risk to his career. Thus
the general-education movement is being crushed,
and the plague of departmentalization now
grows even in the small progressive colleges.
STRAWS IN THE WIND?
No doubt, a good deal more is wrong with
higher education. I speak from an inter-
mediate level, higher than the students and
lower than the administrators, and this is what
I have seen, and I am not alone.
Recently, for example, a grouji of college
teachers drawn from fotir colleges in the Connec-
ticut Valley— Smith, Mt. Holyoke, Aiiiherst, and
the University of Massachusetts— spent some time
thinking of how to set up a new college that
woidd ,i>;ive an education as good ;is these colleges
are rcjMitcd to give, at lower cost. They pro-
posed a New College, one of whose main piin-
(iplcs is the elimination of the usual classroom
lecturing, in favor of seminars on the one hand
153
and a few lectures on the other. The expectation
is that in such a program students could do a
better job educating themselves (with the serious
help of their teachers) than in one where they
were spending the best hours of the day going
through the ritual of the classroom. Another
major proposal for the New College was that it
should not try to have a full roster of depart-
ments, with all the evil effects that this must
entail in undergraduate education.
Perhaps it is another straw in the wind that
the University of the Pacific in Stockton, Cali-
fornia, has announced a radical reorganization
in which students will take only three courses
a semester, each course meeting five hours a
week. Students' eligibility for graduation will
be based on final examinations of proficiency
and on the recommendations of tutors. Except
for the fact that the new plan— apparently con-
cerned that students and teachers will not put in
enough time— assigns five hours to each course, it
seems a hopefid one. One new experimental col-
lege, Monteith, recently founded at Wayne State
University in Detroit, is carrying on the general-
education approach that is declining at the Uni-
versity of Chicago. One of the most serious
efforts to establish a strong general-education
cmriculum is being made by the new York Uni-
versity in Toronto. And while it is true that
general education is declining in the big uni-
versities, some of the small experimental colleges
of the past— Antioch, Sarah Lawrence, Benning-
ton—with their individual and nontraditional
approaches, still seem strong. Their problem,
however, is to find young teachers who do not
have a narrow disciplinary approach.
Unfortunately, no one has suggested any way
of dealing with this problem, which I believe
is the crux of the matter. Educational reform
must be the work of the administrators and the
professors who are truly concerned about the
minds of undergraduates. A few have indicated
what they implicitly think of most American
college education. But the rest . . . alas, the
pleasures of research are real, the disciplinary
training is powerful, and not many of them
think that much is wrong with college education.
Nor does the general public seem worried.
Higher education does after all train technicians,
enough to keep things going; it does hand out
diplomas that qualify people for higher status
and better jobs. But the fact that it is largely a
huge waste for our young people who spent some
of their best years there, and for the thousands
of teachers who spend most of their lives there,
does not seem to bother many people. It should.
How They Might Teach
THE present situation of the younger university
teacher is probably more exciting than that of
any of his counterparts since the mid-seven-
teenth century.
The reasons for this are obvious. Behind the
modern professor lies an enormously significant
intelfectual revolution, in front of him sit rows
of students largely unaware of the implications
of the revolution, and the question how to
effect a vital engagement of the two forces is
no longer imanswerable.
What is the answer? Like everything in teach-
ing, it takes the form of an obligation, a duty.
When students bring him snippets of random
sexology in (unconscious slander of) Freud's
name, the teacher must confront them with a
whole new vision of the nature of the mind.
When they appear in his classroom dressed
in caps and cloaks of seventeenth-century
psycho-dualism on which are appliqued, like
tinsel stars, such nonce phrases as "relativity
theory," "indeterminacy principle," "existential
gap." he must seek to turn them out (by draw-
ing on whatever of the new psychology, physi-
ology, and physics can be quickly taught) with
an intuition of the "world" as a process, an un-
certain act of continual human creation.
When they offer him gabble about conformity
and the organization man, he must show them
(by furnishing relevant anthropology and soci-
ology) that the old icon, the individual, is only
another image in the civilizing but risky dream
of the West.
When they brandish exegetical notes taken
during prep-school sessions on The Waste Land,
he must press them toward the perception that
a revolution has taken place in all the arts—
a revolution made inevitable by the imagina-
tion's effort to master orders and systems of
reality which, unlike those of the past, are in
no part the invention of artists.
When fake issues, idle arguments of ado-
lescent "Democrats" and "Republicans," or
boyish current-events talk about Red China
hating Red Russia, threaten to fog the glass,
he must aim at the revelation of the mass state
as the chief political and social phenomenon of
the age, East and West. And at every moment
he must insist on the necessity of bringing alive
in reflection whole continents and civilizations
that hitherto have barely existed in the Western
mind.
His duty, in short, is to teach new heavens
and a new earth, to show his students into the
world of Now, to drive himself toward that full
consciousness of the times which is the only
armor left against mere irony or mere wanness.
—Benjamin DeMott, in an article in Commen-
tary. September 1960
Harper's Magazine, October 1961
■■■■■
THE EXAMINATION
W. D. SNODGRASS
UNDER the thick beams of that swirly smoking light, '
The black robes are clustering, huddled in together.
Hunching their shoulders, they sj)read short, broad sleeves like night-
Black grackles' wings; then they reach bone-yellow leather-
y fingers, each to each. And aie piepared. Each turns
His single eye— or since one tan'i disceiii iheir eyes.
That reflective, single, moon-jjalc disc which burns
Over each brow— to watch tliis uncouth shajje that lies
Strapped to their table. One jjrobcs wiih his ragged nails
The slate-sharp calf, explores the thigh and the lean thews
Of the groin. Others raise, red as piratic sails.
His wing, stretching, trying the {sectoral sinews.
One runs his finger down the whet of that cruel
Golden beak, lifts back the horny lids from the eyes.
Peers down in one bright eye, malign as a jewel.
And steps back suddenly. "He is anaesthetized?"
"He is. He is. Yes. Yes." The tallest of them, bent
Down by the head, rises, "This drug possesses powers
Sufficient to still all gods in this firmament.
This is Garuda who was fierce. He's yours for hours.
"We shall continue, please." Now, once again, he bends
To the skull, and its clamped tissues. Into the cran-
ial cavity, he plunges both of his hands
Like obstetric forceps and lifts out the great brain.
Holds it aloft, then gives it to the next who stands
Beside him. Each, in turn, accepts it, although loath,
Turns it this way, that way, feels it between his hands
Like a wasp's nest or some sickening outsized growth.
They must decide wliat thoughts each part of it must think;
They lap at, then listen beside, each suspect lobe;
Next, with a crow's cjuill dipped into India ink,
Mark on its surface, as if on a map or globe,
These dangerous areas which need to be excised.
They rinse it, then apply antiseptics to it;
Now the silver saws appear which, inch by inch, slice
Through its ancient folds and ridges, like thick suet.
It's rinsed, dried, and daubed with thick salves. The smoky saws
Are scrubbed, resterili/ed, and polished till they gleam.
The brain is repacked in its case. Pinched in their claws.
Glimmering needles stitch it up, that leave no seam-
Meantime, one of them has set blinders to the eyes,
Inserted light packing beneath each of the ears
And caulked the nostrils in. One, with thin twine, ties
The genitals off. With long wooden-handled shears.
Another chops pinions out of the scarlet wings.
It's hoped that with disuse he will forget the sky
Or, at least, in time, learn, among other things.
To fly no higher than his superiors fly.
Well; that's a beginning. The next time, they can split
His tongue and teach him to talk correctly, can give
Him memory of fine books and choose clothing fit
For the integrated area where he'll live.
Their candidate may live to give them thanks one day.
He will recover and may hope for such success
He shall return to join their ranks. Bowing away.
They nod, whispering, "One of ours; one of ours. Yes, Yes."
Mr. SnodgrasSy who teaches at Wayne State University in Detroit, won the Pulitzer
Prize in 1960 for ^'Heart's Needle," his first book of poems, published by Knopf. "The
Examination" was written for the Phi Beta Kappa ceremonial at Columbia last spring.
■■■
THE MIRAGE OF
COLLEGE POLITICS
Once again we are hearing a good deal about
the "politics of college youth"— not only
in this country but abroad. Magazine articles
solemnly report "new" currents— new conserva-
tism, new radicalism, new enthusiasms for work-
ing overseas and demonstrating ai home. Few
campus phenomena seem to be so widely re-
ported and, at the same time, so oddly distorted;
for there has been very little careful analysis of
what, precisely, is new about the present student
activity, and even less concerning the ways in
which it is, and is not, political.
One reason for the distortion, I think, is that so
many of the reactions to the political moods of
college youth today come from my oAvn genera-
tion of the radical 'thirties and 'forties, and these
views are likely to have no firmer basis than our
own autobiographies— our own exorcism of our
youthful Marxism and other creeds and our
subsequent reconciliation to the America of the
'sixties. Because we are now the parents and
teachers of the young, we assume they are acting
out some imitation of our radical past and will
follow the same path we did. Therefore, we
whisper to them, "Be careful of the Commu-
nists"; we applaud and express concern over their
"new" unrest; and yet behind our pnrental inter-
est I detect a complacent assumption that the
young are merely reliving our experience, laying
away a kind of moral credit against the future
bankruptcy of adult life. Students seem to have
become keepers of the American conscience,
something like the religious, who in their world
apart pr;iy for us.
Whai ol ilu yf„ing themselves? My own ex-
PHILIP RIEFF
Whether American college politics are left or
ris.ht, loud or silent, Philip Rieff contends
they operate in very peculiar ways — completely
different from those abroad, and scarcely
understood here. Now Professor of Sociology at
the University of Pennsylvania, Mr. Rieff has
taught at Berkeley, Harvard, Munich, Brandeis,
and the University of Chicago. He is the
author of "Freud: The Mind of the Moralist.'^
perience of them as a teacher and inquiring
sociologist indicates to me that they are well
aware of the role into which they have been cast.
They have been told, often, that their elders
have become both disenchanted with ideologies
and lacking in ideals. And, for this good reason,
they refuse to listen to anything else we have
to say. Like our old enemies, the Communists,
we too have become ghosts, and we are ghosts
that are generally ignored. To be compelling, a
ghost needs a Hamlet to instruct, but our college
youth are interested in playing neither Hamlet
nor Oedipus now. They neither heed— and
avenge— their fathers, nor destroy them. Lacking
continuing leadership, they play a fickle game
of father figures. For a time, indeed, it appeared
that Adlai Stevenson would become Hamlet's
father— there was perhaps no more admired figure
among political youth in the colleges; instead
Mr. Stevenson chose to play Hamlet. Built u\
into a father-figure for the student young, h(
finally tore himself down and out of the politica
arena until now he has the harmless neutrai
honor of being "father of the year," a mate^
title but hardly one to compel a youthful fol
lowing.
The fact is that no one compels the young t(j
day. Therefore they must compel each othei
like children left without their parents. Wha
passes for politics among them may be mor
accuiaicly described, perhaps, as ihcir mood (
157
excitement at discovering that they are alone
and without direction from the adult worlds of
power and responsibility. And precisely because
it is so leaderless and unconnected with the real
world of parties and power, the present dis-
content of the student young ought to be taken
seriously.
We must remember, however, that a lack of
connection with power and responsibility is an
established quality of college life in America.
Until the 'thirties, this isolation was taken for
granted by the students themselves— they happily
pursued other interests. From the 'thirties until
today there has been a slow— and very partial-
development of a different style of political life,
closer to that found in Europe where students
have long been more involved in real politics.
In effect, American students still remain in their
comfortable ghetto, apart from the political
process, but some no longer think this condition
is a fortunate privilege, and they try to express
their feelings about it.
POLITICS BY DEFAULT
This comparison with Europe is not irrelevant.
On the contrary, I believe it is impossible to
understand college politics in America— and visu-
alize its possibilities— without seeing it against
the background of the very different activities of
youth elsewhere. Looking at youthful politics
around the world, we can immediately make a
number of sharp distinctions. First, we can de-
fine youth anywhere as that group which runs
roughly in age from fifteen to twenty-five and
has not yet put down many deep stakes in the
national economy by acquiring jobs, families,
homes, salaries. Secondly, we can see that in
advanced Western societies— the United States,
Great Britain, France, much of Western Europe
—where youth are on the margin of political and
economic power, they have little decisive effect
on their national scene. Finally, we see that in
the new societies of Asia, Africa, the Near East,
and Latin America, youth are most emphatically
and directly in politics. (So are they in the Com-
munist countries, but in a quite different way.)
By far the most significant activity among col-
lege youth today is taking place in the underde-
veloped areas where students have moved into
politics by default. Their countries have become
sovereign nations with little preparation for
twentieth-century politics and without anything
like a twentieth-century economy or social struc-
ture. The older leaders are often unable to deal
effectively with modern realities, and a new elite
of students is in effect attempting to serve as a
local substitute for a European-style middle class
—the group that has been the historic carrier of
modernization in Western society.
Iran can serve as an example. It is a very poor
nation with an archaic social structure. A small
court aristocracy hovers around the Shah's throne
and is counterbalanced by a larger tribal aris-
tocracy more loosely tied to the throne— rather
like the relation of the king to the nobility in
medieval Europe. Between the two there are
numerous rural peasants and nomads and a small
industrial working class. Except in Tehran, the
middle class is nonexistent. However, instead of
a middle class, there is a growing and self-con-
scious student class, which identifies its own quest
for status with the national quest for power.
The importance of the students far exceeds their
numbers. There are some 12,000 of them in
Tehran, and the Shah often consults— and some-
times debates— with them, acknowledging a voice
already powerful in the nation. Moreover there
are 20,000 Iranians studying abroad, almost all of
them in fields that bear very directly on the
immediate problems back home— agriculture,
medicine, economics, the sciences, etc. (Very few
are studying the arts or humanities.) Of course
these students are sponsored by the Iranian gov-
ernment and in that sense they are not inde-
pendent political forces. Yet they show promise
of being able to perform as the European middle
class did in the nineteenth century, being both
nationalistic and committed to technological
change.
The model for such forced and official breed-
ing of an elite group of students developed in the
Soviet Union in the late 'twenties and early
'thirties when the Communist party recruited
a corps of students dedicated to the national
interest, giving highest priority to training for
the task of modernizing the Russian economy.
Essentially the same policy has been continued
under Khrushchev. The underdeveloped nations
are now imitating the Russian emphasis on
building up the student class, not because they
believe in Communist ideology but because they
have the same need to modernize.
But students as a group are no more grateful
than other groups and the sponsorship of a stu-
dent elite by a regime raises sharp problems. A
rising status breeds quite as much grasping
anxiety in students as a declining status does in
other groups. In Russia the regime has found
that the students have become too jealous of
their elite status and Khrushchev has announced
that they will have to spend more of their time
158
doing manual labor to assure that they remain
"proletarian" in taste and outlook. And where
students see themselves as the only group ex-
pressing the true will and interests of the nation
—however inarticulate the nation may actually
be— the government that sponsors them runs the
risk of creating a powerful opposition.
Indeed, the great question in the emerging
countries is not whether the students will exert
political influence— they will— but in what ideo-
logical direction they will move. From 1789 to
1848 the European middle class conceived of it-
self as representing the true interests of the
nation— and in fact it became the dominant class.
As the student classes of the underdeveloped
countries join positions of power, they may well
be able to perform the historic function of the
European middle class as the vehicle of national-
ism. This does not mean, of course, that they
will acquire a European middle-class viewpoint.
For, unlike the Europeans, they are directly
sponsored by poor governments and their na-
tionalism—more than ever before— is likely to de-
velop internally along statist lines, with a
predominantly collectivist organization of the
political economy. But if the new nations are to
modernize swiftly, student leadership is indis-
pensable, for only they can give their unshaped
countries the unity they now lack.
SHOCK TROOPS FOR ELDERS
In this, the college students of the new nations
arc in striking contrast to most students in the
\Vest. If we date the history of modern politics
from, say, the French Revolution, the evidence
tends to confirm this generalization: Political
youth has done no more than follow, often xvith
decisive effect, the lead of its elders. There are
exceptions, of course. One would seem to be the
case of Cuba where Fidel Castro, a student
leader, led a small and determined cadre of
student revolutionaries to depose a regime that
had lost favor with the older middle-class groups,
partly because of its brutal treatment of students.
But most youthful political activity has run
along lines laid down during the French Revolu-
tion. As one student of that period puts it:
"When the adults were radical, the youths were
radical; when the adults were reactionary, the
youths still followed." Indeed, when adults turn
reactionary, youth turns the same way with a
vengeance. Jacobin auxiliary youth clubs were
active in the French Revolution itself, but during
the (ounter- terror the most sinister political
gangs in Paris ur-r,- ,hr "Gilded Youth"-bands
of dandies who re-established their identification
with authority and enjoyed the protection of
high government officials.
This classic pattern— in which youth serves as
the shock troops for older age-groups— has been
followed again and again in Western politics
right down to our own time. Many European
political parties have organized youth auxiliaries
along Jacobin lines, allowing the student leaders
of proven effectiveness a voice in their councils.
For the most tightly organized of the youth
groups, an analogy can be found in Church his-
tory: It was an essential part of the Jesuit theory
of the Counter Reformation that a militant elite
—devoted to the interests of the Church— be
trained in Catholic schools for the eventual re-
capture of Europe. Essentially the same doctrine
is applied in Soviet schools with the state replac-
ing the Church as the focus of responsibility. As
early as 1902, Lenin wrote off the "weary thirty-
year-old ancients" as unlikely material for the
revolutionary movement and called for an effort
to recruit youth into the Party. Since the Revolu-
tion, student youth groups like the Russian
Komsomol— the Communist Youth League— have
become instruments of official policy throughout
the totalitarian world, pledged to total dedica-
tion to the state, and called upon for special
effort in time of emergency. Nevertheless, in
Russia the League of Communist Youth is no
longer the elite outfit it once was. Its membership
of tAvcnty million remains a main feeder into the
Communist party (now eight million) but the
organization is fairly open, and membership in it
is now simply a way for the ambitious Soviet
youngster to clear the way for success in Soviet
society.
(Some Russian experts count on the aging of
former students within the Communist move-
ment to act as a dissenting or moderating force
on the Party. It remains to be seen whether by
rigorously training a large student elite, the
Soviet government has created a "new class"
from which some measure of internal opposition
can be expected. It would conform more to the
pattern I have sketched out if the "new class"
remains obedient to the state, exacting only those
concessions necessary to keep up its new status in
the Communist world.)
Both the German and Italian totalitarian
movements were quick to learn basic lessons from
their Socialist and Communist rivals and or-
ganize the young in the service of the state. By
the early 'thirties large numbers of German
students and jobless youth had been incorporated
into the Nazi apparatus and sent into the lecture
159
halls and streets to compete with the Red Front
organizations and officially sponsored republican
youth groups. All over Europe similar efforts
were made— often with less success— to build up
the existing youth auxiliaries of European
parties; and to a large extent European youth
was politicized in the 'thirties. Throughout the
Continent today we can still find student groups
acting within the major political formations,
despite the postwar decay of ideological fervor.
THE STUDENT AS ARISTOCRAT
Meanwhile, what was happening in the
United States? It is significant that the
effort to marshal young people— particularly stu-
dents—into national or party organizations
largely failed in this country in the 'thirties.
This was not because similar conditions of un-
employment did not exist here but because the
parties and the American government had differ-
ent attitudes toward the young. The Civilian
Conservation Corps, established in the fateful
year of 1933, was essentially a device to keep
young men from becoming hoboes. Although
the American Communists were ciuick to label it
a Fascist threat, they could not have been more
in error. The Corps never became a political
weapon and the more than a million young men
who enrolled in it from 1933 to 1935 received
no ideological training.
In its statements on the Peace Corps, the Ken-
nedy Administration has seemed to indicate that
it has something like an international CCC in
miild. It is unclear, however, how such an or-
ganization could avoid developing political func-
tions abroad, and there are some signs that in
fact the Peace Corps members will be expected
to involve themselves in the local politics of com-
munity development. It is too early to tell just
what will become of the Peace Corps but it is
significant that in the Administration's publicity
about it the emphasis has been on the construc-
tive labor the students will perform. Whatever
ideological mission it may have, it has been
expedient to present the Peace Corps' purpose
in practical rather than political terms.*
Both of these American youth corps help to
illustrate a basic distinction. Because our politics
developed in a fundamentally different way from
Europe's, the place of youth in American politics
has been altogether different. In Europe, doc-
trines based on "self-evident" first principles un-
* See Benjamin DeMott's article on "The Peace
Corps' Secret Mission" {Harper's, September 1961).
leashed the revolutionary impulses— and it took
a sense of shared purpose and danger to send the
young students out into the street. But such
doctrinal politics passed from the American scene
soon after the Revolutionary period and even
then did not command the unqualified respect
of the American Revolutionary leaders. Unlike
the sponsors of the French Revolution, with
their emphatic doctrine of Liberty, Equality, and
Fraternity, the American Revolutionaries did not
organize auxiliary youth groups and the party
politicians who followed them were not inter-
ested in bringing students into adult political
life.
In fact, through most of our history, American
students have been both uniquely free of adult
politics and notoriously uninterested in them.
The politics of the established middle- and
upper-class families which sent the students to
college could be safely taken to stand for those
of the silent students themselves. In the 'thirties,
something new occurred. Students were organ-
ized into more or less disciplined college units of
adult radical political organizations— Socialist,
Communist, Trotskyist, etc. Significantly enough,
this first appearance of politically conscious
student groups paralleled the appearance on
American campuses of non-Anglo-Saxon, first-
generation Americans with some family history
of Continental political experience.
Thus, American student politics of the Con-
tinental sort came first— and almost exclusively—
at those great urban universities which admitted
considerable numbers of East European Jews and
other children of recent immigrants in the
'twenties and 'thirties. These students found
themselves both socially and politically outside
the usual patterns of American student life. The
occasional old-family American who found his
way into their radical organizations was wel-
comed, of course; indeed, he was often elected
to office, and, along with the earnest girls from
New England, became a useful front for the
group as a whole.
However, because it was dramatically different,
it is easy to overinflate the importance of this
first generation of radical students- not only the
quality of their political programs and their
relevance to American life, but also their num-
bers. Although they did make a few large and
important inroads into a few schools— the City
College of New York, Columbia, Harvard, Chi-
cago—they never succeeded in reaching any
sizable number of students outside the first-gen-
eration circles in which they were likely to make
friends. The average student remained more
160
interested in sports, fraternities, and his career
than in socialism or political action— and in this
he was following an example his father had set in
his own day. If something had been added to
the content of student politics, the form of stu-
dent life remained the same.
What is this form? Essentially it springs from
a conception of American student life as some-
thing set specially apart from any other time.
During his late school and college years, the
American student leads a kind of aristocratic life
unique in American culture— he is given extraor-
dinary privileges of unearned leisure, and is
catered to in many ways which seem to astonish
no one except, now and then, the faculty. Not
long ago I walked through the main gate of the
University of California at Berkeley with a
mathematical colleague who suddenly waved his
arm and exclaimed, "They have been given
everything— what more do they want?" He was
pointing to the university's glittering new Stu-
dent Union which some students like to call the
"Berkeley Hilton."
ENVYING THE NEGROES
But the students are expected to pay a price
for their privileges in the form of good be-
havior. For misbehavior implies an affront to
those who are supporting them during their
privileged and bracketed years of grace, before
they go out into the world as it really is. To be
idealistic and, above all, to try to carry that
idealism into demonstrative political action is
to take unfair advantage of one's special situa-
tion as a student. It is to perversely reject the
pleasurable and cozy isolation from the real
adult world— "the best years in life"— which has
been arranged by a great deal of adult effort and
expense.
Thus, in order to maintain his status and his
privileges, the student is supposed to keep out
of trouble. His politics, like his other extra-
curricular activities, must be conducted in ap-
proved ways. And the way most approved is a
mock version of adult national party politics
called "student government." This is encour-
aged, not to give the students an opportunity
to govern themselves, but as a way of rendering
genuine political interest innocuous. Student
government is most acceptable when it mimics-
indeed parodies-adult politics: the furious cam-
pus election campaif^nv complete with posters,
speeches, parties, fad ions, jof keying for office.
All the political irimmitiRs ik there except the
real issues and the real rrl;: (ween action
and power which are the very substance of
politics. Such a relation might be built by an
attempt to imitate the European model, in which
students would be given a disciplined and active
role in adult politics and would in return have
some voice in adult political decisions. But even
during the 'thirties this was repugnant to most
of the students themselves as well as to their
elders.
Of course there are student political groups in
America on the European model, many of them
European in origin: Socialist Youth, Zionist
Youth, church-related youth groups which take
positions on social issues. And there arc the
college Democratic and Republican clubs which
generally count for very little with party poli-
ticians. But whatever the organization, the uni-
versity authorities can exert control by sealing
off "on-campus" from "off-campus" activities.
Anything approaching serious and controversial
politics runs the danger of being considered "off-
campus" and not sterile enough for student par-
ticipation.
.An excellent case in point recently occmred
at the University of California when the stiulent
organization called "SLATE" was banned by the
administration for calling itself a "political
party." This group of several hundred students
was involved in the San Francisco demonstra-
tions against the House Un-American Activities
Committee in 1960. Since then it has been try-
ing to consolidate itself as a continuing force on
the Berkeley campus. In banning it. Professor
(later Chancellor) Edward Strong, the school's
chief administrative officer, said that a university
must be "entirely independent of all political
and sectarian influences"— a perfect statement of
the hygienic concept of the campus that domi-
nates the minds of the officials who run our
college system. Here again there is a sharp con-
trast with Europe, where the student politics are
national politics brought into the university. "^Ve
prefer mock politics, all empty gesturing and no
substance.
This is not to say that mock politics cannot
be played to real effect. For example, in England
the Oxford Union remains a training ground for
party parliamentarians, with the House divided
along national party lines, prominent guest
debaters from the national parties, and the very
design of the debating hall a replica of the
House of Commons. But our collegiate debaters
and politicians have no such elite institution
to make (heir training a genuine stage in a
political career. For the reasons I have outlined,
they lack a stable or continuing connection with
the politics of the adiik world into which they
will be inducted only on their graduation. When
they become lawyers or businessmen and put
down stakes in some community, they will finally
be eligible tor adult political life.
Recently there has been a striking exception
to this rule. Negro students in the South— the
most backward area of the American college
world— have with their sit-in demf)nstrations and
Freedom Rides developed a kind of student
politics that aims to relate itself directly and
immediately to the adult world. This is a rare
instance of youth leading age, and in fact it
bears comparison with the role of the students
in the underdeveloped countries. For the South-
ern Negro students have also stepped into a
situation where the older powers are often im-
potent. Their skill and articulateness— as well as
their conscience— are really useful to the adult
Negro community because they cannot be sup-
plied in adequate quality or quantity by the
older Negro leadership.
Yet even this exception contains an element
that proves the rule, for the Negro students arose
only after Martin Luther King, a relatively
young religious leader, had offered them a com-
pelling example of disciplined, nonviolent pro-
test that could strike at sensitive spots in the
Southern towns— a workable alternative, in effect,
to the formless resentment and acquiescence of
the past. Even though many of the active Negro
students are not directly linked to Dr. King, he
has given them crucial direction.
The example of the Negro students has stirred
their white contemporaries in the North not
merely to sympathy but to imitation in the form
of demonstrations and even trips to the Southern
jails. BiU this imitation cannot be carried very
far because, unlike the Negroes, the white stu-
dents do not have a community which needs or
wants their support. Nor have the white students
a Martin Luther King to give them not only a
strategy but also a faith in their capacity to le-
deem themselves and others. The would-be po-
litical students I have talked to in the Northern
colleges can only envy the vitality of the Negro
student movement. More than a few of them are,
in effect, a second generation of politically con-
scious liberals and Socialists, the children of the
first generation of college radicals 1 have already
162
described. Their parents passed alon^ to them
the ethics of political activism, yet demonstrated
their own incapacities during the McCarthy era.
But they have found no opportunities like those
of the Southern Negro students, however much
rhey may dream of them.
WORDS MUST SINK
Nevertheless, there have been insistent claims
that, after years of apparent deadness,
American college life has recently undergone a
mysterious political quickening. As late as May
1959, The Nation magazine made the standard
generalization that college youth were "apathetic,
silent, conformist, indifferent, confused." But
early in 1960, some brisk change of attitude is
said to have occurred, blowing away the defeat-
ism and apathy of the 'fifties.
I would argue that no such major change has
taken place and that beneath the publicized
flurries of student political activity, the same
basic attitudes continue. In the first place, the
students involved in the new activity remain a
small minority— the great mass of students remain
quite apathetic and resigned. And what this mi-
nority has done has been to shift the politics of
youth toward a more explicit and demonstrative
protest against the politics of the adult world it-
self, after the more silent protest of the 'fifties.
But this is not a major change, for the politics
of American youth has always been a negative
anti-politics. The chief actions the students have
taken recently have been protests against abuses
of power by their elders and indeed against
power itself. For example, in California since
1960, students have demonsirattd against the
execution of Caryl Chessman: againsi the House
Un-American Activities Committee; against mili-
tary service in the colleges; against nuclear weap-
ons; and against unjust treatment of Negroes in
the South. And the same or similar issues have
attracted college students elsewhere.
No doubt all these demonstrations involved a
satisfying discharge of moral conscience for the
students who took part. But looking deeper into
the attitudes behind the protest, one finds little
that is political at all. At first glance, the student
radical seems to be a determined protector of
iruellectuals and an apprentice intellectual him-
self. Most politicians appear to him as Babbitts,
"phonies," and professional moralizers, lacking
culture and sensitivity. And above all he is sus-
picious f»f "f)hr>iu'ncss" which he detects every-
where around him: (he old patriots he finds re-
actionary; iIk- old Marxists discredited; ihe old
liberals compromised. All are dismissed and dis-
trusted as "word slingers." If silence was the
student rhetoric of the 'fifties, noises and march-
ing would seem to be the rhetoric of the 'sixties:
both indicate intellectual scorn for professional
moralizing.
But, for all this scorn, there is a deep-rooted
anti-intellectualism among the politically sensi-
tive young. Words, they consider, sink a subject;
action enlivens it. They have no political theory
or program, either Marxist or non-Marxist. To
protest against the House Committee, Chess-
man's sentence, or M^oolworth's is still to "play
it cool," for it implies no further responsibility,
except perhaps to march again, and so can have
no real effect on adult political decisions.
This denial of any link between student ac-
tion and adult political power shouts from the
very walls of the dormitories. During the last
election, for example, I would see signs reading,
"Vote NO for President," as well as, "Ban the
Bomb," and Stevenson posters hung around the
rooms of my radical students. I often wondered
just how superior they were to their apathetic or
conservative fellows in their understanding of,
say, racial discrimination. Many, it seemed clear,
would rather cherish their sentiments for equality
than study carefully the complex questions in-
volved. If such students could grow less senti-
mental and more analytical it might help them
take their first steps toward participating in the
organized worlds of power and responsibility
now ruled by the philistine representatives they
reject.
On the campus itself, the radical young are,
predictably, anti-organization men. Their own
organizations function as gadflies to the main
body of student organizations which are gener-
ally conservative. And in the last year or so,
overt student conservatism has become more
vocal and publicized than ever before, as large
college audiences have turned out to cheer
Senator Goldwater. Some teachers have observed
among the professedly conservative students both
articulate criticism of organized mass society in
all its forms— "big corporations" as well as "big
labor" and 'big government"— and a kind of
nostalgic individualism.
My own observation of the campus conserva-
tives is somewhat different. These students seem
to me to be rejecting not only radicalism but the
advanced college culture. They arc able to focus
both resentments on the campus intellectuals,
who arc generally to the left and culturally more
aspiring— they tend, for example, to ( hoose
scholarly over business careers. In cllect, the
163
young conservatives form an aggressive minority
of nonintellectual students who now stand
openly for the traditional college culture which
implicitly approved of athletics, fraternities, old-
fashioned patriotism, and the virtues of good
business as opposed to good works. By turning
to Senator Goldwater, they proclaim their loyalty
to the American business community, into which
they hope to graduate; and at the same time they
challenge their liberal and leftist contemporaries
who have for years made "big business" and "or-
ganization men" their targets.
Moreover, by bucking the campus liberals and
their many mentors on the faculty, the con-
servatives do demonstrate an old-fashioned
American individualism of a sort— they plav tiic
role of "agin-crs." And since they can sometimes
spot worms at the core of standard liberal
policies, they feel superior to the liberal estab-
lishment, which they see as dominating campus
thought.
The student radicals and conservatives are
thus strangely alike: both feel embattled and
both can only protest. Lacking political solu-
tions of their own, the radicals now pit their
ethical consciences against the dangers of the
political game itself. For example, their agita-
tion against the moral horror of nuclear weapons
is absolute, with no attempt to visualize political
costs or alternatives. And while the newly
vocal conservatives may voice more or less well-
founded suspicions of liberal gospel, they show
no signs that they have ever tried to visualize
concretely a society in which both public wel-
fare and foreign aid are drastically limited, as
Senator Goldwater advocates. It is in this sense
that the politics of college youth may be fairly
called antipolitical.
INEVITABLY POLITICAL ANIMALS?
Moral indignation is one expression of
student antipolitics; snobbery of taste is
another. Indeed, if any single quality is apparent
among intelligent students in the 'sixties, I
should say it is a sense of cultural superiority
over the generation of their parents. For ex-
ample, the youthful sentiment for Adlai Steven-
son seemed more centered on him as an
attractively civilized man than as a political
figure. To be radical politically has become
thoroughly confused with a belief in a minority
culture and the students have not even begun to
sort out the problems and contradictions.
It is, however, only too easy for members of
the adult generation to criticize college students
today— to condemn the apathy and dim belief
that characterize the large majority, and the
precocious cynicism and fruitless protest that set
apart the few. Adults would do better instead
to examine their own political institutions. For,
as I have pointed out, when college youth be-
come really involved in politics, they have gener-
ally followed the lead of elders who inspired and
organized them; who presented them with ideas
and programs in which they could believe, and
gave them a definite role to play in senior
political life. The plain fact is that in our com-
plex society most college students are not able to
formulate political beliefs and programs of their
own. And they arc not old enough— or involved
enough in adult political and economic realities
—to accept an adidt political system based on re-
sponsibility for decisions, compromise of convic-
tions, and the balancing of opposed interests.
They have not yet acquired worldly interests of
their own. They look for ideals and men in
which they might believe, and quickly reject
them when their acts are at odds with their
words. They have not yet learned, in short, to
act without conviction.
It is certainly true that exemplary men and
programs are hard to come by in any modern in-
dustrial society, but every generation of students
continues to need them for models if it is to
commit itself to political action. The masters of
Russian society are well aware that none of them
can pretend to be anything like exemplary men,
and in pasteboard figures like Yuri Gagarin they
have tried to provide Soviet youth with sub-
stitute heroes. In France and England more and
more young people have felt so estranged from
adult leadership that they have entered their
own phase of vocal protest against adult politics
itself.
Lacking direction from any group above, most
of our own political youth remain stranded.
They can only devise attitudes of protest against
the possibility of dying without a cause they
deeply believe in and without leaders they can
love. Unless our society can produce political
leadership and ideas which will compel their
positive emotions, we may expect that the more
aware among our college students will continue
to act out their kind of rejection of all power
and politics I have described in this article. For
this is their one sure way of hedging against the
disappointments and betrayals and compromises
which the most respected and intelligent among
their elders have told them are the inevitable lot
of decent men when they become, as they must,
political animals.
Harper's Magazine, October 1961
NOTES ON
POLISH STUDENT LIFE
Coming from a Iiighly competitive Eastern
university in the United States to study in
Poland is a strange and disorienting experience.
Through a veil of bincaucracy, the iinioccnt
Harvard Shivicist dimly perceives a university
system that seems to be the reverse of his own.
He begins to wonder, though, when he learns the
students' inclinations and habils. Just like an
American, the Polish student, male, is inierested
in automobiles, sports, current events, jazz, and
vacation excursions; the Polish student, female,
is preoccupied with vacation excursions, clothes,
and the next date.
Because of the single-party system here, a
politically minded Polish student must either
keep his views to himself or join a bureaucra-
tized government organization at the school or
university level. This does not mean that the
administrators or members of the ZSP— the na-
tional Student Union— are necessarily vehement
Communists. Theatre tickets, social activities,
trips abroad, and other material benefits are
available to members at reduced rates. Scholar-
ships, some of them to other countries, are also
provided. Although membership in the ZSP is
not compulsory, 90 per cent of the students be-
long U) it.
The labyrinthine system of university instruc-
tion is bound to shock the American guest. Once
the hour and phire of a given lecture have been
asfcMaiued (and granting that the professor
materializes), the fiehavior of the students dis-
tinguishes itself by lack of discipline. Because
of the persistent static-like whispering, the
REUEL K. WILSON
Study in a Communist country can implicitly
throw into relief the unappreciated privileges
and possihililies of our own college system.
Reuel Wilson, who took his degree in
French literature at Harvard in 1960,
wrote this report while spending a
year at the University of Cracow in Poland.
foreigner is well gidvised to find a front-row seat.
Serious students are more frequently met in phi-
losophy, history, or philology than among the
Romanists— Romance language majors— or fash-
ionable Polonists. These latter, the students of
Polish literature, correspond to the ubicjuitous
English majors in America. The humanities are,
inevitably, most vulnerable to the increasing
pressure of Marxist-Leninist ideology upon
education in general, though at the same time,
unlike the sciences, they are neglected by the
government. The sciences are encouraged and
rewarded, while the humanities are under-
staffed and taught under constraint.
A graduate in science can automatically expect
a government job and not infrecjuently he is sent
abroad for a year of training. The humanities
major generally expects neither a well-paid job
nor travel. Strangely enough, a young college
graduate who wants to write has a better chance
for early acceptance than he would have in the
U. S. If he has not already had some associa-
tion with a Catholic periodical, the government
encourages him to write for the press. The pay,
however, is negligible— three or four dollars for
a ha 11 -page newspaper article.
Nearly all students live at home, with rela-
tions, or in enormous cement dormitories. The
acute housing shortage in Poland is perhaps
hardest of all on the youth. The idea of "going
165
away to college" hardly exists here— one attends
the nearest and most convenient school. Even
the two-year military service is usually incor-
porated into weekly sessions during the academic
year and continued during summer vacations.
The competitive pattern of a socially and in-
tellectually absorbing "campus life," as we know
it in the United States, is unheard of. The uni-
versity is simply the means for a diploma; noth-
ing more. It is even possible to study law and
medicine simultaneously. In the humanities the
minimal requirements are generally easy to
meet and the student is free to work very little.
The three or four English departments in
Poland, small and understaffed, are the excep-
tion to this; overwhelmed by masses of appli-
cants, English teachers have to insist on fairly
high standards of preparation.
You cannot be a "professional student" in
Poland. The postwar government has exerted
itself to democratize education and everyone
who passes the national entrance examination
receives a scholarship to college; but the scholar-
ships are small— 600 zlotys or $8.40 a month at
the official exchange rate for Poles— and there are
no graduate schools. At the end of five (not four)
years, the undergraduate may write a master's
thesis. As in America, it is customary to teach
while working for a doctorate, but the salaries
paid are miserable. A student who depends on
his scholarship alone cannot afford to drink
much, go to restaurants, or drive cars. There is
no self-consciousness about college being the time
for song-singing, window-breaking, football
games, and summer-vacation affairs while tour-
ing abroad. The university is primarily an ad-
junct to ordinary existence.*
The brighter students have all read a quantity
of Western contemporary and classic writers.
After the "thaw" of '56, such authors as Heming-
way, Faulkner, Camus, and Sartre appeared and
immediately sold out. Tennessee Williams, Ar-
thur Miller, and now Eugene O'Neill have been
performed and acclaimed all over Poland. Shake-
speare is played as frequently in Warsaw as in
London. The actors, stage designers, and even
the directors tend to be youthful. A good
*In dispensing scholarships, the government favors
the children of peasants and workers over those whose
background is aristocratic or professional, and one
sees the mass media used to propagate the image of
the diligent, clean, and intelligent worker-student. On
a recent TV discussion program a group of high-
school students displayed abysmal ignorance of Polish
and foreign literature. Suddenly a dea ex machinn
appeared in the form of a chic proletarian girl who
talked about Sartre and other okay leftist writers.
many of the theatrical people— as well as the
painters and writers— I know in Cracow are al-
ready well established in their fields while still
in their twenties. At the same time, they have
read a great deal without restricting themselves
exclusively to professional or academic interests.
As in the rest of Europe, American things are
in great demand here: shoes, sweaters, cigarettes,
instant cocoa, the works of Steinbeck and Cald-
well and Saroyan. Except for the books, these
hard-to-get commodities sell for very steep prices.
I often feel like the Great Gatsby in Cracow.
There in a sordid chamber more suited to
Lovelace than to a Fitzgerald character, I in-
troduced my friends to that deadly American
institution, the cocktail party. Frequently, at the
insistence of an audience of curious and excited
Poles, I must strew the bed with a profusion of
many-colored ties, shirts, and sweaters.
THE PASSIONATE BLACK SWEATER
Like everything else in Poland, the life of the
colleges must be seen against the background
of the national dilemma. The country's geograph-
ical position is as unfortunate today as it was
when Catherine the Great's troops overran most
of it before the Second Partition in 1793. It is
not surprising that the Poles, constantly invaded,
partitioned, and exploited by their neighbors,
have become nationally neurotic. While it is
possible to criticize and make fun of the Soviet
Union, the subjects of the Oder-Neisse boundary,
German rearmament, and the Eastern territories
taken over by Russia are strictly to be avoided
by the foreigner. Intelligent conversation about
Germany is impossible here.
Not for the first time, the Poles are trying to
reconcile a certain amount of independence with
a threatening jorce majeure to the East. Despite
the relative autonomy obtained by the "peace-
ful revolution" of 1956, Soviet power is once
more asserting itself. "Socialist realism" is again
being periodically encouraged in the art acad-
emies. Criticism in the press is less tolerated than
before. The unfavorable balance between pos-
sibility and necessity especially penalizes the
younger generation. There are many young
people who admire the Soviet Union's power
and remember her as a liberator from the Nazis.
There are also those who wish to remain apolit-
ical and lead their own lives. To neither group
does religion seem to be a solution. During the
Stalin era, students went to church to spite the
government; now they don't. The long-suffering
Catholic Church in Poland has remained intel-
166
lectually respectable, but religion, like politics,
is a topic rarely discussed by students.
The uncertainty of the Poles' economic and
political situation is reflected in student social
life. Among my contemporaries, I have noticed
bizarre combinations of beatnikism and aristo-
cratic manners: a turtle-neck sweater passionately
kissing the hand of a pale black-stockinged
"Ri'lle Dame satis Merci." They seem to be acting
out a kind of modern Romanticism, based on
ideas of bravery, nonchalance, and wealth, as
seen in film heroes and heroines. The exhibi-
tionistic side of the Polish character requires an
audience. The presence of "towarzystxvo"—i\\e
group, society— is indispensable to most social
intercourse.
Living in Poland, one encounters a variety of
^\ell-established but sharply separated in-groups.
For instance, in my university town of Cracow, I
found one extreme represented by the official cafe
club of the ZSP, located in a series of tomblike
and garishly painted rooms. Here the students
are served up a distasteful mixture of rock n'
roll, lifeless cultural discussions, small concerts,
and official gatherings to repeat slogans of \\orld
communism. Only a few steps distant, across the
main square— but miles apart in conception— is
the Pivnica (cellar). This bar is perhaps com-
parable to one of the Paris existentialist hang-
outs of fifteen years ago. The patrons, most of
them still students, are painters, theatrical
people, musicians, writers, and hangers-on.
Several times a week, there are revues or
"cabarets" that parody everything from Brecht
to the Battle of Griinwald.* The audiences
are delighted with these incongruous, disorderly
performances.
There also exists the Krzystofory, an actors'
club cafe in a spacious and graceful Gothic cellar.
The waitresses are citified gypsies, and the atmos-
phere is brassy but lively. The club sponsors both
art exhibitions and plays. Their most recent
production, a wildly experimental pre-Dadaist
work of Witkiewicz, was directed by a well-known
young painter, Tadeusz Kantor. The Krzystofory
serves as a gallery, theatre, and meeting place for
students and intellectuals and is operated for the
amusement of the public on a noncommercial
•At Griinwald in 1410, the newly united Polish-
Lithuanian confederacy defeated and broke the power
ol the Teutonic Knights. Recently, a colossal film
adapted from the Sienkiewicz novel about the battle
has been released here. The Pivnica habitues then
shot their owrj film version of Griinwald in a field
near Cracow— a hilarious procession ol familiar faces
disguised in armor, oriental dress, and flapper cos-
tumes of the style of the 1920s.
basis. It is difficult to imagine a similar enter-
prise in America.
In student society, jokes, imitations, and
anecdotes are used to deal with every conceivable
subject. Stock national stereotypes such as the
phlegmatic Britisher, Mr. Peterson, or the ever-
resourceful and wily Jew turn up in lengthy
narratives. Political figines are represented in
grotesquely comic situations. \n exchange of
good stories and bons mots generally replaces
gossip, and sex is hardly mentioned except
in connection with humorously compromising
circumstances. For example, the young man
who had just seduced a girl calmly remarked:
"AVell, that completes my sociological investi-
gations."
Partly as a reaction to the attempted govern-
ment promotion of folk traditions after the war,
Polish yoimg people are usually ignorant of or
sour about the old dances, songs, and proverbs.
In a country permeated by folk customs, mod-
ernization and socialism have encouraged people
to substitute anecdotes for allegorical narratives
antl pithy sayings. The national self-conscious-
ness continues, though, to express itself in color-
ful terms. One hears contemporary Poland com-
paicd to a radish: red on the outside, white on
the inside. This is clearly a folkish image
adapted lo modern contingency. The Polish
mind is still endowed with a fondness for emo-
tional and arcane categorizing.
Jazz seems to be a predominating general
interest among students. 1 remember the time
Stan Getz was scheduled to play three nights in
Cracow. I attended the second night. Every seat
w^as sold and all the hipsters, dressed to kill,
were there. The audience excitedly milled about
waiting for the main attraction. Cheap vodka
was selling phenomenally, under the good old
capitalist principle of private enterprise and
large profits. During the first few hours of a
projected all-night jam session, Polish bands per-
loimed vigorously. The one thing lacking was
the star, Stan Getz. Actually, Mr. Getz, in-
furiated by his dealings with the Polish bureau-
cracy, had already destroyed the recordings he
made here and had gone back home to Denmark.
The crowd had to be satisfied with three very
beat Swedish boy-musicians who finally staggered
onto the platform blind drunk.
A similar incident happened while 1 was
writing this article. An anti-capitalist-imperialist
demonstration, inspired by the murder of Lu-
mumba, was staged in several cities. This
trumped-up affair was advertised as the spon-
taneous protest of Polish students. Its organiza-
167
ion, to be sure, emanated from those misty
l<Cafka-esque heights whose workings are invisible
»nd whose ends lequire no justification. Tlie
,tudents in Cracow, unperturbed by the absence
)f a Belgian diplomatic post, demonstrated in
ront of the French Consulate.
The absurd occurrences, so frequently met in
neryday life, jjerhaps account for the fact that
ui idealist is a "white raven" among the
tudents.
The nationalistic Poles have always excelled
n the role of the oppressed. Their most cele-
brated Romantic jioets, Mickiewicz and Slowacki,
vent into permanent exile as young men. This
phenomenon, the flight of an entire literary
generation, resulted from the failure of the re-
volution against Russia in 1832. Today flight
and exile are neither popular nor very possible.
The nineteenth-century Romantics thought that
Poland's unlucky lot must be due to God's selec-
tion of her as a holocaust for the whole world.
This mystic but hopeful view can hardly be re-
suscitated by the present generation of Busy
Polish Young Moderns. No one is unaware of a
growing authoritarianism which more and more
limits contact with the West. Yet the young
jjeople I have come to know in Cracow remain
sanguine and unafraid.
Harper's Magazine, October 1961
THE NEW
CAMPUS MAGAZINES
President Kennedy will never be unseated by
a march of students on Washington, nor
could a visit to this country by someone like
Generalissimo Franco be banned by students, as
in effect the Japanese students banned President
Eisenhower. But it is no longer news that the
younger generation in our colleges has become
restive. Some of the students have attracted na-
tional attention by taking action, opposing au-
thority, and learning about politics. Witness the
much-publicized protest riot against the House
Un-American Activities Committee in San Fran-
cisco and, more important, the sit-in campaigns
of the Negro students and the Freedom Rides.
It is not so well known that in their efforts to
clarify their thinking, present their views, and
consolidate their influence, American students
have come up in the last year or two with a
bumper crop of new magazines. They come from
all over the country, bearing names like Alba-
tross, Analysis, Cambridge 38, Advance, New
Guard, the Yale Political, New Freedom, Acti-
vist, Venture, and so on. But widely dispersed
as these magazines are, they are not regionalist
in spirit. For example, the impressive Studies on
the Left at the University of Wisconsin does not
trace its views directly, if at all, to the radical
traditions of Wisconsin politics, and most of the
editors are from New York.
Some of these journals are published by under-
graduates, like the Albatross at Swarthmorc and
the Activist at Obcrlin, a mimeographed mag-
azine which in the one issue I have seen
expounds pacifism and nonviolent resistance.
Cambridge 3S, edited by undergraduates at Har-
vard and RadcJilfe, devotes a lull issue to African
problems and presents, along with s(jme excel-
RICHARD CHASE
One of America's most distinguished literary and
social critics, Richard Chase recently read
through the new college magazines — most of them
hotly political — and reached rather different
conclusions from Philip Rieff's article in this
supplement. Mr. Chase (Dartmouth, '37) is
Professor of English at Columbia and author of
several books, including studies of Melville and
Whitman and, in 1958, "The Democratic Vista."
lent photography, articles by research fellows,
diplomats, and students from Africa. In most of
these magazines the emphasis is on the left, but
all shades of opinion can be found. Some of the
undergraduate editors make a point of not hav-
ing opinions, even less an ideology. As one of
them writes: "In the 1930s students were Com-
munists or democratic Socialists; we are activists."
Like New University Thought at Chicago,
Studies on the Left is produced by graduate stu-
dents. Both these journals come in fairly ex-
pensive-looking formats and carry articles not
only by students but by young professors, and
some not so young. Like the new magazines gen-
erally, they are literate but they are seldom
literary; they are edited by students of history,
economics, political science, law, and sociology,
as well as the humanities. By contrast, purely
literary magazines like the venerable Advocate
at Harvard and the Columbia Review (Colum-
bia—once a hotbed of radicalism!) seem, even
though they are the best of their kind, oddly
outmoded or at least old-fashioned. In a recent
editorial the Advocate promises to do all it can
to avoid being guilty of the charge that it is a
coterie magazine; but when it comes to this,
what is the future? Literary magazines like the
Advocate and the Revicxo are predicated on being
coterie and are likely to flourish only when new
literature is genuinely a part of the intellectual
avant-garde— which it was, say, from 1912 to
1910 l)ut which it no longer is.
Unless my memory fails me, the best of the
169
new journals are intellectually several cuts above
the utterances of the campus radicals of twenty-
five years ago. Furthermore, one of the first
things that strikes the inquiring reader is the
consciousness the students have of being a group
—not merely a generation (a vague term at best)
but a kind of class or public in itself, almost,
in fact, a "proletariat." This will surely be a
source of great strength in whatever undertak-
ings the young rebels decide on. Unlike the
college rebels of twenty-five years ago, they do
not identify themselves with the working class.
There is still some argument about this in the
magazines, but generally speaking they see the
working-class proletariat as a Marxist myth, es-
pecially under American conditions. And they
see in themselves more solidarity and sense of
being a "class" than the working class sees in it-
self. A sign of this is that they speak of them-
selves unabashedly as "intellectuals." The campus
radical of yesteryear was likely to disown this
title— certainly he did not wear it proudly as a
badge of identification.
The new radical is likely to be terribly pro-
fessional about everything. His troglo-
dytic ancestor of the 'thirties may have been
more colorful, with his sense of himself as a
"revolutionary" or a "worker" and with his
generous anarchic or mystic or merely Stalin-
ized impulses. But the young people of today
are far more sophisticated, efficient, and dutiful.
A reader brought up on the amateurish little
magazines of the past, which sported their ama-
teurishness as a virtue, will be amused to find
Studies on the Left admonishing contributors
about the preparation of their manuscripts: "Bib-
liographical and footnote form must follow that
in the revised MLA [Modern Language Associa-
tion] style sheet." (Someday I hope to get hold
of a copy of that venerated guide to correctness,
never yet having seen one, revised or unrevised.)
The more ambitious of the new student jour-
nals print articles on social and political prob-
lems which are sometimes close to stupefying in
their apparatus of argumentation. Often there
are long charts and lists of statistics. New Uni-
versity Thought, for example, has an exhaustive
account of the brief, lamented Congressional
career of William H. Meyer, a Democrat from
Vermont (who writes, by the way, an angry-
young-man letter in the Albatross). The article
includes a chart showing the voting by counties,
although it maybe a question as to how many
people in Chicago are interested in the electoral
situation in Chittenden County, Vermont.
This alliance of "pedantry and rebellion,
scholarly sobriety and impassioned protest,
professionalism and dissent, seeks a political pro-
gram and is, more or less distantly, Marxist.
Both Neiv University Thought and Studies on
the Left complain in editorials and essays about
the fragmentation of intellectual activity which
they perceive as they listen to their elders on the
podium or read them in the scholarly journals.
Neiu University Thought declares that it is:
a political magazine. It is also a scholarly journal.
And it is a journal of opinion. These functions ap-
pear to be disparate only because thev have been
so long dissociated from one another in our over-
specialized thought.
New University Thought is less militant than
Studies; the editors speak of their audience and
of themselves as "liberals and radicals," whereas
Studies makes it plain that it is "radical." But
they both question very severely the academic
shibboleth of "objectivity"; one can find in both
magazines searching essays on topics like "Ob-
jectivity and Commitment." In general they see
in the vaunted objectivity of their academic
elders a fear of posing real questions and raising
dangerous issues. They see in it a legacy not
only of the intimidations of the McCarthy era
but a retreat from intellectual responsibility in-
duced by a disinclination to confront the really
vital problems of the Cold War.
The academic tone of these magazines con-
trasts rather sharply with the freer journalism of
the young British radicals who put out Nen> Left
Review (formerly the Universities and Left Re-
viexc), from which in many ways the American
left magazines seem to have taken their cue. The
academicism one finds in the American maga-
zines—the long articles on Senator Borah, Wood-
row Wilson, chapters extracted from Ph.D. dis-
sertations, and so on— must be attributed in part
to the uncertainty of the young rebels about
themselves and their place in society. Relatively
speaking, their British counterparts knoio: they
are Socialists and they are allied with the Left-
Labor movement. This gives them a dynamism
and self-assurance, so that they are not tempted
to resort to the isolated world of footnotes and
charts.
The new student magazines unite in complain-
ing about the liberalism of their professors. This
"liberalism of the Establishment" they identify
with people like John Kenneth Galbraith, Ar-
thur Schlesinger, Jr., and Professor Daniel Bell
of Columbia. They reject as defeatist Professor
Bell's thesis that we have come to an "end of
170
ideology "-although they 'have not, so far as I
have seen, disproved it. They oppose what they
regard as the prevalent belief among the older
intellectuals: that however well radical ideo-
logical solutions to social questions may have
fitted other times and places, America has be-
come a unique society with built-in restorative
poAvers which work so well that no large-
scale reconstruction is necessary or applicable.
The conception of the mixed and affluent society
(Galbraith) with its vital center (Schlesinger),
where contending social forces, economic con-
tradictions, and clashing power groups find a
tolerably harmonious balance and stability,
seems to many of the new radicals to be a form
of mysticism.
Rejecting the idea of America as a unique and
self-regulating country, they think of it, or at
any rate of themselves, in a context with Cuba,
Russia, China, and japan. They imply that
America may not be exempt from revolutionary
upheavals. And they sometimes seem attracted
to C. Wright Mills' thesis that power in this
country is not balanced by mutually compensa-
tory forces but is in the hands of a relatively
small elite of financiers and militarists to which
the liberal, Stevensonian professors pay witting
or unwitting tribute.
Attacks are also launched against the liberal-
ism of professors by "conservative," or, as I
•' ould prefer to say, right-wing-radical student
•^'agazines, like Analysis at the University of
Pennsylvania. An editorial statement in the first
issue of this journal hails the "emerging con-
servative generation" and expresses strong dis-
satisfaction with "the monolithic atmosphere so
often found among the faculties of our schools."
The metaphor may be dubious, but the meaning
is clear: too many professors have a belief in the
Welfare State and Keynesian economics and this
is a belief which shades off inevitably into so-
cialism and, from there, to communism.
Analysis allies itself with the Intercollegiate
Society of Individualists, which is devoted to
"the advancement of conservative thought on
the campus" and which publishes a newsletter
called the Individualist. Analysis acknowledges
that it is an offspring of other "conservative"
journals, notably National Review. An article
called "The Myth-makers at Penn" is aimed at
dispersing the conformism among liberal faculty
members and students, who, we are told, have
be(ome so accustomed to their monopoly on
thought that they have made "responsible dis-
cussion" impossible. The new magazine aims to
bring to the campus "articulate, diverse view-
points."
Analysis has some of the acuteness and intel-
lectual agility of such rightist mentors as Wil-
liam Buckley of National Review and Senator
Goldwater (or his ghost writer). Unhappily it
also shows the shallowness and negativism of the
"conservative" position. Often effective on the
attack. Analysis gives the familiar impression of
never having looked at the facts of life in a
world whose population may before long ap-
proach three billion people. When one reads
that "there was a time when every man was
free in every sense of the word," one can only
be astonished. And when one is told, in the
words of Professor Albert H. Hobbs of the
Wharton School of Finance, that among student
conservatives "an awareness dawned that Pie in
the Sky takes a great deal of dough," one reflects
that both the conservative students and their
teachers have a long way to go before they can
match the literacy, learning, and essential serious-
ness of their left antagonists.
The Swarthmore Albatross should be men-
tioned here, although it has perhaps not yet
quite succeeded in defining itself. Modest in
format but full of ambition, it describes itself
as nonpartisan. This journal consists entirely of
letters written by students at various colleges to
public officials on such matters as the Cuban
situation, the Un-American Activities Committee,
the Peace Corps, foreign policy in Africa, and
the sit-ins. A student who wants to write his
Congressman is urged to send a carbon copy of
the letter to the Albatross, which then informs
the Congressman (who perhaps hasn't opened his
mail yet) that a letter to him is being printed in
a magazine read by "several thousand students
and adults." The laudable purpose is not only to
make Congressmen attentive to the letters but to
inform and consolidate student opinion.
Some Congressmen have responded— a brief,
temperate defense of our Cuban policy by
Senator Fulbright and a mean-spirited defense
of his Un-American Activities Committee by
Representative Francis E. Walter which is ably
rebutted by a Dartmouth student. In recent
issues the magazine has taken to soliciting "let-
ters to the editor" in order to achieve more point
and coherence in each issue. Although welcom-
ing letters from the "conservatives" (it has a long
one from Fulton Lewis III), Albatross has in
practice shown a largely liberal attitude. At
present the magazine is attempting to launch a
Spanish edition for distribution among students
at Latin American universities.
171
Albatross is all for direct action in the spirit
of the Peace Corps and the sit-ins. Theories do
not clash nor ideological sparks fly in its pages.
But as I have already suggested, they do in some
of the other magazines. One is tempted to argue
with Neiu Uyiiversity Thought and Studies on
the Left, for example, because they are full of
prickly statements. Clearly in a Popular Front
mood, the contributors to these magazines oc-
casionally fall, perhaps without knowing it, into
a Leninist-Stalinist rhetoric one had supposed
was long ago discredited. This is especially true
of their discussions of Cuba, which are imre-
servedly pro-Castro. Cuba: Anatomy of a Revo-
lution, a frankly pro-Castro work by Leo Huber-
man and Paul M. Sweezy, they take as gospel or
at any rate presumptive truth. They seem to be-
lieve, with Huberman and Sweezy, that Batista
was swept into the ocean by a revolutionary up-
rising of the peasants— otherwise known as the
"rural proletariat"— in a mass action which also
included the urban workers. But there is very
little evidence of any such mass action and much
evidence that the shaky Batista regime collapsed
in the face of the Castro threat because of its
own internal weaknesses and in the face of
middle-class fear and resentment of Batista's
terrorism.
A reviewer of the Huberman-Sweezy book in
Neri' Uuixiersity TJiought notes the optimism of
the authors concerning Castro's agricultural co-
operatives. "Their optimism," he says, "is based
on the assumption that, because of [his] peculiar
experiences, the peasant is less bound to the
concept of owning his own land than to better-
ing his living conditions; and that this will
facilitate his entry into agricultural co-oper-
atives. . . ."
The late George Orwell would have been in-
terested in this sentence. He might have pointed
out that it is easy to sit at a typewriter and
speak of a man's feeling for the land as a "con-
cept," just as it is easy vicariously to "facilitate"
the entry of "peasants" into co-operatives. How
does the student reviewer know that in many
cases "facilitate" should not be translated "force
at gun point"? Many people have been facilitated
into various havens in this century, including
several millions of Ukrainians, during the
period of planned starvation and mass deporta-
tion imposed by Stalin, Khrushchev, et al.
As for the Communist party in Cuba, some of
the students on the left apparently believe that
it is sincerely helping to advance a humanitarian
revolution conceived by Castro entirely without
Communist tutoring. "Communists work very
hard," we are told, "and there is no indication
that their loyalty is anywhere else than with
Fidel and the Revolution." But scarcely three
years ago, there was no indication that their
loyalty was not with the Batista regime, which it
was.
However, this is not the occasion to argue but
to try to sum up the burgeoning and heter-
ogeneous political thinking on the campuses. It
is not easy to do, but certain facts have clearly
emerged. Despite its sallies into ideology,
mistaken or fruitfid, the student liberal-left
movement remains pragmatic and eclectic, like
everything else these days from psychiatry to
government. The students are for immediate
action on any front where they think it can be
made humanly significant and might at least
open out the possibility of profound political
change (as do the sit-ins, for example). Intel-
lectually, they agree that they must avoid com-
mitment to the apologetics of all the great
powers; they preach dissent of a thoroughgoing
kind as the first step toward liberating the world
from the ironclad and potentially disastrous
polarization of thought and policy that has come
about as a result of the Cold War.
The second step, which they admit to being
uncertain about, is the establishment of an
"organizational center" on the left. Except for
a few doctrinaires, the young radicals seem pre-
pared to do this in whatever way it can be done,
and without ideological preconceptions— for ex-
ample, as to whether they are socialist or not.
But the difficulty in establishing an organiza-
tional center is that it seems to require an
alliance with some group, class, or community
which shows signs of evolving into a vital
political and cultural force strong enough to
change the life of the nation. This is where the
major uncertainty comes in. The vital force
does not seem to be in the labor movement, as
to some extent it still is in England (is the Team-
sters Union a cultural force!). Lacking this his-
toric base of radical change, the students look,
on the home scene, to the Negroes and to them-
selves. Studies on the Left says:
The pressures of almost one hundred years of
oppression that forced the Negro to define himself
as an outsider, a marginal man, have produced a
quantitative difference. The old symbols are losing
their attraction; the common experience moves in a
different direction— toward community. To be proud
of a separation from the community or to deny or
ratify a personal failure with unconcern is becoming
anachronistic. . . . But this sense of community is not
limited to the South. In tlie North, numbers of stu-
172
dents, for the first time in decades, have been moved
to militant action, have felt a sense of belonging to
something more relevant than "prom" committees or
apprentice political clubs.
The students find solace in C. Wright Mills'
theory, expounded in his "Letter to the New
Lett," that despite the enormous forces at work
in the modern world and despite its overwhelm-
ing population the definitive power is still
wielded by small elites and that the "young
intelligentsia" can become one of these elites.
What kind of society do the young intellectuals
look forward to? When they ask themselves this
question, the important thing seems to them
to be how life is to be lived. Often repeated
in their editorials and essays are the words
"community," "solidarity," participation," "hu-
mane," "humanism," "rationality." Except for
a few zealots left and right, they do not, as did
their predecessors of twenty-five years ago, pro-
fess to know what specific structure society
should have, or what dialectical stages it is
destined to go through. One might almost say
that they don't care, so long as the coming
society provides the human values they cherish.
For the moment, they are fascinated by the
Cuban revolution— one woidd gather from their
magazines that a city called Berlin does not exist
—and many of them see in fideUsmo the prin-
ciple of "direct democracy." This appears to
them attractive, even though "direct democracy"
by-passes such civil processes as free elections.
The impulse toward activism, directness, im-
mediacy gives a certain power to the students of
the new left. It is not surprising that under
American conditions they shoidd have difficulty
in rationalizing and implementing this impulse
with a coherent body of ideas. If the campus
radicals can evolve an adequate ideology, they
will become, as they grow older, a strong force in
American society. Perhaps they will anyway,
ideology or no ideology.
Harper's Magazine, October 1961
30D IN THE COLLEGES
"^ he professor looked into the faces of the
. freshmen in Philosophy 1. "How many of
II," he asked, "believe in the existence of God?"
Ke walked up and down a little. The class was
ellectually alive and usually argued. No hands
nt up.
'Good. I'll give you Anselm's proof for the
istence of God." In a few minutes of lecturing,
? professor presented Anselm's proof. "Now,"
paused. "How many of you see anything
ong in this proof?"
No hands went up.
'Well, then, some of you now believe in God.
)w many?"
Still no hands went up. When the professor
d about it later, he shrugged. "What can you
when thinking doesn't seem to make any dif-
ence?"
The experience of this professor is not a soli-
7 one. The fact that the life of personal con-
tion is separated from the life of academic
[elligence is frequently remarked in university
e. The phenomenon is not even confined to
is country, for it is well known in England. In
icky Jim, Kingsley Amis makes fun of the non-
mmitment and the sham which he finds in
iddle-class education; Wilfrid Sheed's Amer-
m-English novel, A Middle Class Education,
tends the observations well beyond the class-
om. In our day it is precisely this that educa-
)n in England and America has become:
iddle-class. John K. Galbraith's The Affluent
ciety brought the emergence of the new and
imerous educated class to our attention: it is
ere for anyone to see.
The present essay pretends to no special statis-
:al wisdom; its material has been gathered from
long-time interest in religion and the univer-
MICHAEL NOVAK
Although he writes as a Catholic, it seems
doubtful if Michael Novak's critique
of college faith will please many religious
leaders anywhere. Mr. Novak graduated from
Stonehill College in Massachusetts, took a
theology degree at Gregorian University in Rome,
and is now a Teaching Fellow at Harvard while
studying for his doctorate in philosophy. His
first novel, "The Tiber Was Silver," has just
been published by Doubleday.
sity, from reading, from conversations at Harvard
and other colleges. Undoubtedly, the essay has
fuller relevance for the liberal-arts college; I
have hardly broached the problem of religion in
the scientific and technological schools. In the
smaller colleges and the huge state colleges, the
focus may be somewhat different.
How does God fare in a middle-class educa-
tion? What happens to religion in a middle-
class education?
First of all, we must remember that since
medieval times the West has been becoming a
middle-class civilization. The rise of the bour-
geoisie has been concomitant with the rise of
technology. And underneath the social and eco-
nomic changes that made Europe capitalist
and then industrialist, there was a change in
world view. Even though the bourgeois classes
might cling to the conventions and forms of an
older tradition and an older faith, the imperson-
ality of business and the objectivity of scientific
method were molding their weekday spirits and
their habitual attitudes. The very bourgeoisie
that nourished the technological and scientific
revolution, nourished within itself an intellec-
tual avant-garde that strove to point out to it
how very empty its forms had become. The
avant-garde was usually increasingly irreligious:
from Voltaire and Hume, Comte and Zola, to
Shaw and Russell, it has come to take its battle
vis-a-vis religion as won. For its point has been
that our culture is now at base irreligious, that
the bourgeois businessman who pretends dif-
ferently is either hypocritical or blind. Catholi-
'il
174
cism was long content with the status quo, and
Protestantism for a long time praised the thrifty
and the rugged and the strong. Thus the war on
poverty which Marxism declared and which the
democracies have taken up is (though it need not
have been) a secular war, and the ideals which
international civilization now pursues are secular
ideals: the abolition of poverty and disease, of
ignorance and indignity, of colonialism and
tyranny. Giving itself to science and technology,
our culture makes religion not central but op-
tional, and the avant-garde has been trying to
point out— and to form— the change.
Secondly, it is necessary to see that while
Europe was torn nearly to its death by the ide-
ological and physical contortions of recent rev-
olutions and wars, America and England have
tried earnestly to go on as before, as if nothing
has happened. The war washed away the intel-
lectual foundations of Europe's past, and in-
tellectuals like Camus, Sartre, Marcel, Barth, and
Guardini have fought desperately for intellectual
starting points— whether they deny or affirm the
possibility of religious faith. But in America and
England, philosophy and art showed little such
desperation; men tried to pick up where they
had left off, a little more tired, a little more
angry, worried about the bomb, but not funda-
mentally changed. Moreover, education in
England and America has become financially
cushioned as never before. The government, cor-
porations, unions— all give grants for specialized
research or simply for the maintenance of stu-
dents and professors. A distinctly comfortable and
entrenched kind of existence is growing up. The
small, modestly optimistic world view which
Europe shared before the wars is still almost
possible. The radicalism of the American
'thirties has been fragmented by prosperity and
by disillusion with ideology.
Although the colleges pride themselves on the
awakening of young minds, on the asking of the
Big Questions of life (who and what is man,
whence has he come, where is he going, what is
love, what is passion, what is reason, is there a
God?), it is soon clear to college students that
the Big Questions don't count— either in aca-
demic standing, or in later life, or in research
grants.
In the first place, the standing assumption is
that ultimate questions are in principle unan-
swerable, and hence not worth asking seriously.
This assumption may not discourage freshmen,
but over a four-year period it is pretty well
driven home. In the second place, nobody is
niudi iiiurf sifd I., v,.,,],^,,,.' :,,iswers to such
questions, or deems them worth putting in com-
petition with anybody else's. Even among the
professors it is assumed that ultimate questions
are nonintellectual, personal, and if matters of
supreme importance and self-commitment, never-
theless not matters for passionate academic dis-
pute. The university, on principle, concentrates
on statistics, historical facts, historical intellec-
tual positions, logic modeled on the discourse
of the physical sciences, and ample documen-
tation. Even the literature courses, under the im-
pact of the New Criticism, have the students
noting the occurrences of words, running down
allusions, and abstracting from the conditions of
history. The Anglo-American university has com-
mitted itself to all that is "objective," countable,
precise, publicly verifiable. Though this com-
mitment suits the middle-class temper capitally,
it stifles religion almost to death.
AJINY TASTE OF REBELLION
Not only religion is stifled. More funda-
mentally, it is possible— it is even common
—for a student to go to class after class of
sociology, economics, psychology, literature, phi-
losophy, and the rest, and hardly become aware
that he is dealing with issues of life and death,
of love and solitude, of inner growth and pain.
He may never fully grasp the fact that education
is not so much information and technique as
self-confrontation and change in his own con-
scious life. He may sit through lectures and
write examinations— and the professors may let
him do merely that— collecting verbal "answers,"
without really thinking through and deciding
about any new aspect of his own life in any
course. The dilemma of education has always
been to combine merely mental skills with per-
sonal experiencing and growth. The educational
currents in American colleges tend to oscillate
from one pole to the other; and at present the
attention in college to the formal and the public
easily leaves the inner life of the student im-
touched.
It is true that in a place like Harvard, or
among more serious students everywhere, the
young collegian may experience beneficial crises
of growth. He gets a taste of rebellion against
his origins; he may become, for a while, "avant-
garde." The folks at home find him restive,
critical, hostile, in his approach to a world he
had hitherto peacefully shared. He has learned
to despise the organization man and the many
patterns of conformity in mass culture; he has
learned a certain contempt for suburbia and its
175
lues. Yet he likes the comforts of home. Worst
all, in college he has not really had to rebel
:cept perhaps against not having Latin on his
Dloma). The college gave him rebellious, crit-
1 books, but also gave him a cool grove to
id them in. No commitment, no crusading, no
roism is asked of him. The college merely
nts him to "have the facts," to show mental
itrol of the concepts. Yet he, so everyone tells
n, is not at all like the collegians of the
irties, or even of the 'forties. He is cautious,
iet, studious. And no wonder. So is the in-
tution in which he is studying. The higher-
wered institutions are committed to testable
ormation and techniques; the patterns of con-
mity in lower-powered institutions do not far
nscend the interests of the society that fosters
?m.
"SAY NOTHING"
K iddle-class Christianity— the bourgeois
'X Clhristianity which Nietzsche, Kierkegaard,
:^uy, Bloy, and others so hated— was always
ident, small-visioned, secure. It dared little,
:h its gaudy-colored plaster statues, or its de-
es to protect the little world of the entre-
meur. In the person of many university pro-
sors, middle-class secular humanism is not
ich more daring. It thinks of itself as humble
its agnosticism, and eschews the "mystic
;hts" of metaphysicians, theologians, and
tamers; it is cautious and remote in dealing
:h heightened and passionate experiences that
; the stuff of much great literature and philo-
)hy. It limits itself to this world and its con-
ns, concerns which fortunately turn out to
largely subject to precise formulation, and
lice have a limited but comforting certainty,
has a particularly comfortable ambiance if
works within the physical sciences, or mathe-
tics, or the statistics of sociology and eco-
tnics.) If we cannot control the great uncertain
estions in the universe, nevertheless we can
ike a universe of little certainties we can
itrol.
rhe agnosticism— atheism would be too strong
word— of the classroom is not militant. It
only, in principle, unconcerned. It is bour-
)is Christianity all over again, to so great an
ent that, in college, in spite of differences in
ief, the behavior of agnostic and of religious
n is pretty much the same,
rhe agnosticism of the classroom does not
I'e to be militant. Once upon a time it was
titing for its life; now it is an accepted part
of the college scene, in fact the predominating
part. The old battles between positive science
and religion which delighted, or angered, our
grandfathers— about chance and design, monkeys
and Adam— seldom resound now in academic
halls. The distinction between empirical and
theological activity seems pretty well recognized
—each side preserves a certain calm and only
occasionally do tempers flare. Perhaps psycholo-
gists more than others are given to writing off
religion as illusion; anthropologists, in turn, are
habituated to data on revelations and recurrent
religious themes, and correspondingly casual
about the traditions of Judaism and Christianity.
One school of analysis in philosophy, of which
Russell and Ayer among others are examples, be-
lieves that nothing that cannot be reduced to
sense experience can have meaning, and most
religious questions of course lie outside this re-
stricted zone. Some partisans of another move-
ment, linguistic analysis, following the later
Wittgenstein, do not require the discourse of
faith and theology to conform to other kinds of
discourse, but study it in its own right; but
religion does not lie in words.
Professional disciplines aside, a bland toler-
ance seems to be everybody's ideal. Say nothing
that will offend. Say nothing that involves per-
sonal commitment. Stay close to the public facts.
"You've got to teach these youngsters to forget
the shoulds and musts they came here with," one
new teaching fellow was recently admonished by
his program director. "The students have to
learn to be objective." And of course such a
critique is excellent, since some shoulds and
musts are what a man dies for. But there seems
to be correspondingly little concern about which
ones he will acquire and keep.
Professor Raphael Demos of Harvard was once
quoted as saying, with perhaps his touch of
irony, "Veritas means we are committed to noth-
ing." It may be that the American consensus has
forced a "commitment to nothing" upon our
universities; we are a pluralist people, and it
seems very difficult to discover a way to teach
about those differences on ultimate questions
that make us so. The colleges make a "com-
mitment to noncommitment," have a "faith in
non-faith." They demand perpetual re-examina-
tion and have nowhere to rest.
Thus the new middle-class tolerance of the
colleges neither destroys— nor transforms— the re-
ligion of the incoming freshmen. Of one hun-
dred students who marked themselves "atheistic
or agnostic" on the poll of the Harvard Crimson
in 1959, only ten felt "obliged ... to enlighten
176
others to abandon their faith." The new toler-
ance merely establishes, officially and in prin-
ciple, that personal conviction be separated from
teaching and learning. If a student wishes to
commit himself to answers to ultimate questions
(by commitment to some personal synthesis, or
to traditional religion or ethics, or anything), he
may do so— is even encouraged to do so— but
not publicly, nor officially, not in his daily work.
He will do well to keep his answers to himself.
In term papers and on tests they will not be
welcome; there he is obliged to prove rather that
he knows facts and correlations, and can run,
seeking, as well as anyone else. No one in official
university life seems to care about his convic-
tions.
There is good reason for the university's posi-
tion. One of its tasks is to turn out professional
men. Think of the difficulty there would be in
correcting exams and term papers if each student
were engaged in a highly personal way in work-
ing out a position important to himself. What
if the student found that something of impor-
tance to him was of minor importance to the
course— or outside its confines? The dilemma of
professionalism versus full human experience is
a pressing one, and cannot be solved by making
light of it.
TRIALS BY WEAK FIRE
How relevant is this dilemma to the actual
church affiliations of college students? A
Catholic report published in America (April 8,
1961) quotes Bishop Robert E. Lucey as saying
"The dangers to faith and morals are at least as
great in a downtown office as on a secular
campus." The national survey of Time magazine
(1952) is cited to the same effect. "No appre-
ciable number of defections," say Newman Club
chaplains at the University of Illinois and the
University of Iowa; those which do occur "result
rather from weak religious background prior to
college than from campus living and experi-
ences." The Harvard Crimson poll I referred to
earlier records a high rate of defections-40 per
cent among Protestants, 25 per cent among
Catholics, 12 per cent among Jews— among the
310 students who answered. But in almost every
case the defection had its roots in precollege
days, especially in high-school experience.
Although it is not clear what constitutes re-
ligious "strength," it is clear that if the student's
faith goes through a personal trial-by-fire, that
is Ins affair. There are few courses in critical
theology, few in modern critical Hihlical theory,
few in the theory and practice of organized re-
ligion, to help him explicitly and formally to
mature his theological intelligence. In the view
of some religious men, this is a good thing;
religion, after all, is not something that can be
formally taught. It is a living commitment to
be enkindled from person to person, a life to
be lived rather than lessons to be learned. Be-
sides, formal theological studies imply a living
content of religious experience; but it is pre-
cisely this living content which in our day most
men no longer possess. If religion is to enter the
university, it must enter first at the most elemen-
tary level: in experience, in awareness, in slow
and gradual exploration. The traditional words
are not relevant to the present religious develop-
ment of most men. Our times are sub-, not only
post-, religious. The institutionalized forms of
religion did not originate in modern life, and
modern science and technology have grown up
outside them; the two worlds of religion and
modernity are strangers to each other. Were
there to be merely formal courses in theology at
the university, genuine religious life would fare
hardly better than at present. As the New Crit-
icism is to art, so is critical theology to religious
awareness. Theology, like the New Criticism, has
a role to play, but it is neither necessary nor
sufficient for religious life.
If we admit that theologians would also con-
tribute to the professionalism and formalism al-
ready thriving in the modern university, who
might do better? The answer, I suggest, must
be that the greatest contribution to the religious
life of the university could come from teachers
and scholars— formally religious or not— who
could lead the student to the profound human
experiences lying below the surface of the aca-
demic curriculum.
These experiences are often "prereligious";
they are barely starting points for full religious
life. But they are the only foundation on which
anything living can be built. I mean man's
experience of his fragility, of his transitoriness,
of his tininess; his consciousness of his uniqueness
on the earth, of his endless and restless ques-
tioning; his personal choices whose motives and
consequences he cannot fully know; his vast
ability to be proud and to fail, to be isolated
and to love, to be— and yet not to be— the master
of his own destiny.
These experiences, and others like them, un-
derlie the statistics of economics and of soci-
ology, the laws and hypotheses of psychology,
philosophy, and other disciplines; they are at
the source of great poems and novels and his-
177
tories now often taught as if they were technical
puzzles.
Large and unsettling personal questions arise
from these experiences. And it is by their an-
swers, explicit or implicit, that men finally differ
from one another: how they react to achieve-
ment, to pride, to love, to suffering, to feelings
of life and energy, to death. Implicit in the ac-
tions of every man is his own particular bias and
approach to economics, to social and political
affairs, to all matters with which he deals. What
are the biases and beliefs that make a student
imique and color all his judgments even in his
professional concerns? Instead of cf)ncentrating
on this question, and hence helping the student
toward self-discovery, the imivcrsity takes the
easier path: it tries to maintain an area of
"objectivity" and "fact." But the iridy crucial
element in human knowing (I repeat: even in
professional knowing) lies in the recesses of
personal judgment. Our critical sciences, imlike
our creative arts, have favored the "objective"
over the "subjective." Oiu" universities favor the
one pole over the necessary two: notional-verbal
competence, over the self-knowledge and self-
commitment that also affect professional careers,
and make up personal life.
UNTESTED PRETENSE
If university teachers could right the balance,
would religion begin to thrive? Those who
have made faith central to their lives— who be-
lieve in the reality and relevance of God, and
the interaction (in dark faith) of God and men-
hold that it would. And if theology, as such,
came to the campuses and became there em-
battled and truly controversial, this would be
welcome; for the very fact that fundamental
questions were posed would transform the
experience of university life.
No one can know what the full consequences
of such a transformation might be, but surely
it woidd mean that university people would be
far more closely engaged with the world outside
than they are today. Religious men in colleges
could follow the example of the clergymen who
took part in the Freedom Rides, went to jail,
went on a hunger strike in the name of justice
and brotherly concern. Religion has pla\ed a
large role in the commitment of the voung
Negroes to struggle for their rights. It must sug-
gest other ways of acting when situations in our
society call for justice and compassion and oio-
test. Religious men must be "active." They are
obliged to consider the forms a just society
shoidd take, and ways to achieve them. Again,
in the silence, self-control, and patience required
by the tactics of passive resistance, they find an
excellent school in the "passive" strength of re-
ligion. The intellectual resources from which
such a transformation might grow are now latent
on our campuses. And they are quite carefully
neglected.
Meanwhile, the student on the secular campus
works out his religion for himself. Often his
previous religious background will have been
uncritical, informal, and unsophisticated; he
may be the first member of his family pursuing
a university education. His grasp of religious
concepts like faith, hope, love may well be fat
less precise and intellectually defensible than it
ought to be; his university career will offer him
very little formal help in clarifying and criti-
Chance What Comes
CHRISTOPHER Z. HOBSON
Harvard, 1963
TOUCH nothing, it will stain. If you must, try
To grope from here to day, but do not touch
Another, you will have him on your hand.
The stain will spread until you are another's
Partly at least. Touch nothing, you will die.
The silent one enfolded here— too much
Can happen, he may push, not understand
The hand he stains that stains him is his brother's.
Then will you stay here limed and softly lie
Against the wall, not touching, in the clutch
Of what you do not touch as in a band?
Iron, iron, iron! All are brothers'—
Reach and touch and chance what comes for breath.
Nothing stains like nothing, even death.
178
cizing them. It is possible that college life mav
be for him. then, a period of searing but private
examination. For a time at least he may stop
going to church or synagogue, and believe him-
self atheist or agnostic. But the chances are— in
most schools and among most students— no such
honest and fruitful personal critiques will occur,
at least of any lasting depth. ^Vhere they do seem
to occur, experienced religious men are pleased.
"It's a more thoughtful kind of religion." seems
to be the consensus of chaplains near Harvard.
"It's better than merelv going to church out of
habit. They may be missing church services and
undergoing changes now: but they'll be back
when they return to their local communities and
all the better for it."
But will they be? The fact seems to be that
even among the more searching students, re-
ligion follows the pattern of their other personal
convictions. The pattern of conformity they are
taught in college, by which thev systematically
separate their inner convictions from the "ob-
jective" work of the classroom, will simply be
continued in their business affairs, legal practice,
or work of whatever kind in later life. A civil-
ization pervaded by the laws and spirit of tech-
nology—on which profit and life itself are based
—is a civilization prone to expediency and non-
moral, nonpersonal considerations. The vice of
academicians is to become intellectual technolo-
gists: this vice prevails. The consequent bour-
geois life of the American university becomes
with hardly a hitch the middle-class life of the
organization man and the suburbanite. The pre-
tense of nonconformity and intellectual liberty
on campus is seldom tested by real and funda-
mental disagreement; for such disagreement is
usually "subjective" and not amenable to the
kind of debate the university tacitly approves.
"Liberals" and "conservatives" in politics, for
example, seldom touch the basic issues separa-
ting them: they both tr\- to argue in terms of
"facts": but why they are committed, each in
his separate way, to different ideals, and what
precisely these ideals are and whence thev are
derived— this kind of discussion does not suit
the pragmatic and "objective" temper of present
intellectual life. It is too intangible, dialectical,
personal, however lethal in its effect upon action.
"GOD IS NOT DE AD"
One might have hoped that the religiously
committed private schools in .\merica
might have made by now some major contribu-
tion to American intellectual life. In part, they
have been too concerned with putting up build-
ings, with more or less ghetto-like defensiveness,
and with hesitating between secular standards
and their own long-ago tradition. In part, gen-
eral American intellectual life rules out of pro-
fessional discussion the very commitment which
the religious schools primarily exist to foster. In
any case, the potential strength of the religious
school now goes almost for nought.
One might have hoped that religious men
within the secular colleges might bv their under-
standing and their leadership have restored to
American universities a chance for a living and
critical experience of religion. It is true that the
Danforth Foundation, the National Council for
Religion in Higher Education, and other groups
are trying to favor the presence in our univer-
sities of talented religious men. But the strident
tones of Fathers Feenev and Halton. and of
^Villiam F. Buckley, Jr.'s essavs and talks have
sometimes soured the air. .And for decades there
have been too few* men. at once intellectual and
religious and wise on the campuses. Vast empty
spaces seem to surround the Niebuhrs and the
Tillichs. The churches are filled with w^orshipers
but intelligence has fled from the ranks of re-
ligion. Who or what can bring it back?
^Vhat, then, is the place of God in our col-
leges? The basic human experiences that remind
man that he is not a machine, and not merely a
temporary cog in a technological civilization, are
not fostered within the university. God is as
irrelevant in the universities as in business
organizations: but so are love, death, personal
destiny. Religion can thrive only in a personal
universe: religious faith, hope, and love are per-
sonal responses to a personal God. But how can
the immense question of a personal God even
be posed and made relevant when fundamental
questions about the meaning and limits of per-
sonal experience are evaded?
"God is dead. . . . ^Vhat are these churches if
they are not the tombs and sepulchers of God?"
Nietzsche asked. But much of "Western human-
ism is dead too. Men do not wander under the
silent stars, listen to the wind, learn to know
themselves, question, "Where am I going? ^\'hy
am I here?" They leave aside the mysteries of
contingency and transitoriness, for the certainties
of research, production, consumption. So that
it is nearly possible to say: "Man is dead. ...
What are these buildings, these tunnels, these
roads, if they arc not the tombs and sepulchers
of man?"
God, if there is a God, is not dead. He will
come back to the colleges, when man comes back.
Harper's Magazine, October 1961
I
WHAT THEY'LL
DIE FOR IN HOUSTON
The University of Houston is a big city col-
lege. Its nineteen buildings, most of them
steel and concrete, squat heavily on the 150 acres
now in use, constantly devouring and spewing
out approximately 12,000 students and 600 fac-
ulty members. A thin shell of apartment houses
and residences surrounds the university area;
beyond is industrial Houston.
Many students at the university work by day
and go to school at night. The average age runs
from eighteen to twenty-two, but many are older.
Only a few come to college already stirred by in-
tellectual curiosity. And only a few are touched
by the desire to know for the sake of knowing
once they arrive. All rejoice, however, that in
1963 the university will be a part of the state
system. A student's tuition then will drop to S50
a semester from its present level of S275 or S300.
What do these students think they are paying
for? The question must puzzle every teacher,
and I have wondered about it since I started
teaching English at the University of Texas.
There, and later at Houston, I found myself
dissatisfied with the responses my students were
making when I assigned them freshman tliemes.
Our personal relations were amicable enough
and the students seemed to get on well with each
other, but when asked to deal with any abstract
idea or assigned theme, no matter what the sub-
ject, their writing was curiously apathetic and
perfunctory.
Attempting to get at the root of this, I pre-
pared a questionnaire:
1. Why are you attending the university?
2. Are you satisfied with your situation? If
MARJORIE K. MCCORQUODALE
Not, as it turns out, for very much.
In fact this picture of the drifting apathy of
many students confirms the worst suspicions
voiced by Messrs. Jencks, Glazer, and Novak in
their articles in this supplement. But
Mrs. McCorquodale shows how a fresh experiment
has opened up new possibilities. Formerly
on the staff of the Houston "Post^' — and
Republican candidate for Lieutenant Governor
of Texas in 1951 — she earned her Ph.D. in
English at the University of Texas in 1956.
not, in what way would you like to change it?
3. Is there anything you would be willing to
die for? If so, what is it?
For the last five years I have handed out this
(juestionnaire to my students to be answered and
then returned unsigned. It seems likely that the
answers are close to the students' actual feelings.
And until this past year they have been an al-
together depressing lot.
To the first question, the students replied with
horrifying unanimity that they were in school to
"learn how to get along with people." Some
variation of this sentiment, often using the very
same words, was to be found in every paper. The
goal of their university life was to make friends
or to improve their social status, or to get a
better job— certainly not to acquaint themselves
with books or ideas. They merely wanted the
symbol of learning, an academic degree, without
the learning it signifies. Their answers made me
wonder if we were educating a nation of sales-
men—but salesmen who, since they knew nothing
or almost nothing, really had nothing to sell.
The answers to the second question were al-
most equally uniform. More than anything else,
students said, they wanted "to be safe."
What would make them feel safe? They told
me that "security" meant a family, a home, a car,
and a permanent job. They were what Paul
Tillich calls worshipers of the Idol of Security.
They did not ask for adventurous work, chal-
■■
180
lenging work, nor even highly paid work— just
secure work. They wanted nine-to-five work with
the express conviction that at five minutes after
five their "real life" would begin.
As freshmen they were stirred by no intellec-
tual curiosity nor by any large discontent with
the world's ways. They were motivated by a
pathetic desire to please everyone; the changes
they would like to make were not in the world
but in themselves. They did not want to alter
their unworthy character traits— but rather to
reassemble their personalities into an acceptable
pattern; they wanted to become "like other peo-
ple." to be indistinguishable from the group.
They were "yes" students. (How I longed during
those years for an occasional resounding "No!")
After these answers, the replies to question
three were inevitable. They could not, they said,
think of anything worth dying for. Nothing at
all.
THE WATCHERS
I was anxious to know more about this "real
life" that would begin for them when their
working hours were over— the life that began,
perhaps, each day when school was over. At the
close of the semester, I assigned my students to
write a paper entitled "My Style of Life." They
were asked to write about their characteristic ac-
tivities—not their dreams or wishes but what they
characteristically did each day. Their own
answers astonished them.
Their "real life" consisted in doing nothing
energetically and doing it in a totally routine
way. Their "real world" is a sham, for in the
main they were living in it only vicariously.
They were spectators. They looked rather indif-
ferently at football, baseball, or whatever sport
was in season, yet their enthusiasm by no means
matched that of the alumni; they turned on tele-
vision; they listened to music over the radio;
they went to movies; they drove their cars here
and there; they were watchers.
Above all, there was no bridge for them be-
tween their world and the world of abstract ideas;
they did not generalize even about their own ex-
perience. Their learning, except for such facts as
"Columbus discovered America in 1492," seemed
to them a total waste of time for they made no
connection between the world of ideas they en-
countered at school or in reading and the "real
world" they lived in. Although many of them
described themselves as religious, the abyss be-
tween the general and the particular applied
here also. For most of the students, religion was
merely a form appropriate to Sunday, and Sun-
day only. They saw no implications for their own
lives in anything they read. The one or two stu-
dents in each class to which these statements did
not apply sparkled out against the dull back-
ground of their slumbering companions.
It seems apparent that students are apathetic
and indifferent to the world of ideas because
they are not interested in discovering the theory
behind an experience. But I found that they
were good at memorizing facts, having learned
in high school to give back on their papers the
verbatim words of the textbook or teacher.
It comes as something of a shock for such stu-
dents to discover in their sophomore year that
the writers we study are saying something about
the real world— that, for example, the wander-
ings of Holden Caulfield in J. D. Salinger's
Catcher in the Rye can actually relate to the
quests and dilemmas of their own lives. Un-
fortunately, it tannot be said with confidence
that many students progress even that far.
When my questionnaires came back to me this
year, I found that the answers had taken a small
turn for the better. For example, fifteen of my
1.S3 regular students replied to the question,
"Why are you in the university?" with the simple
answer, "to learn." Other answers ranged up and
down the utilitarian scale from, "I need a degree
to get a raise," or, "College men are competing
for my job," to the statement, "I'm here because
all my friends are going to college."
How would they change things? They would
like more money to spend; or they would like
two cars instead of one. This year, however,
more students have an idea of what they want to
do with their lives. They know, at least, that
they do not wish to live out the same pattern of
life as their parents. Like young Herman Mel-
ville trying vainly in Liverpool to find the land-
marks noted on his father's map, today's students
find the world changed, the old landmarks gone.
And this year some wrote: "I would die for my
family." One gets the feeling that they are
acknowledging that this is the price one must
pay for what Riesman calls "an island of secur-
ity," a family: one must be willing to die for it.
There was another new and insistent note in
the papers this year: the implication that stu-
dents are seeking something to which they can
commit their lives, something worth living for
as well as worth dying for. This longing for
commitment may account for the success of
various patriotic and pseudo-patriotic organiza-
tions in the Houston area in recruiting college
students as members.
181
Looking over the papers I became convinced
lat there were signs in them of a more mature
:)proach to learning and life among the stu-
nts. This is not to say that even the most
oniising writers showed much autonomy in
cir ideas— they were highly suggestible, chang-
g like weathervanes under the influence of
cir friends or of some stray notion. But a de-
sion to commit oneself to anything at all in-
;r;ites the beginnings of courage, willingness to
sk mistakes, desire to take some action. The
(1st recent responses from the students gave me
)pe that an awakening of a kind may be taking
Ince among some of them.
FIERCELY LOYAL LEARNERS
ro one group at the University of Houston,
most of what T have said does not apply.
hese are the members of a special interdisci-
linary honors program started three years ago,
iih the aim of providing an intensive and
ie;iningful four-year curricidum for a specially
k'( ted group of students. Only freshmen with
ipcrior high-school and entrance-examination
?cords were allowed to apply, and those chosen
ere picked because they impressed faculty inter-
iewers with a desire for an education which
ould be broader and deeper than that provided
V the usual coinses.
The students all studied a core curriculum—
eveloped by an interdepartmental faculty com-
littee— which consisted of world literatme,
merican literature, history, logic, political sci-
nce, a language, and a science. Those of us
rho teach the courses try to relate our subject
latter to the other disciplines; above all, the
im is to avoid treating knowledge as if it
^ere a series of pigeonholes and to emphasize
le ways in which the same experiences and
leas can be approached from several points of
iew. For instance, in studying the traditions of
laturalism this year, my students were assigned
elections from the works of Darwin, Huxley,
pencer, Malthus, Marx, Schopenhauer, Taine,
nd Zola. Working in pairs, they prepared essays
n each of these writers, and went on to read
'rane and Dreiser, seeking to relate the novels
3 the ideas they had recently encountered. From
he freshman through the senior years, a two-
our colloquium meets each week to discuss the
iterrelations of the various studies under way.
In contrast to the general run of undergradu-
tes, the honors students are not at all baffled
•y the relation of theory and ideas to their own
ived experience. On the contrary, they gen-
eralize quickly from their readings, see implica-
tions for their own lives everywhere. They are
not, I should make clear, the easiest group to
teach, being obstreperous, argumentative, and
questioning. Consequently, they are a delight-
fully challenging group to be with— it does not
take them long to learn that mere memorization
will earn them a poor grade.
The honors group sets itself quite apart from
the other college students by its esprit de corps
and enterprise. For the first two years they have
most of their classes together and thus they be-
come a closely knit group. They take the initia-
tive in arranging faculty or student panels to
discuss problems that interest them. They
organize their own sports, picnics, chess games,
dances, swimming parties. They display a fierce
loyalty to each other when anything from the
"outside" threatens one of them. Challenged
with a tougher program than most students, they
work much harder and more willingly. And they
have shown a gratifying ability to act on their
own. In my courses, for instance, I introduce
them to the art and theatre facilities of Houston,
which are considerable. No further prodding is
needed— they go their own way to concerts and
galleries. And, most crucial of all, they are mov-
ing along their own lines of interest in their
intellectual lives, choosing their future fields of
activity on the basis of what they like to do, not
on what will make them the most money.
These students are not the withdrawn book-
worms some might expect. They are particularly
interested in world affairs and quickly form
opinions on controversial questions. In fact, if
a question is not controversial, they are not much
interested. Who cares, they say, to explore the
obvious?
Certainly their reactions are anything but pre-
dictable, and here the contrast with the usual
undergraduate is the greatest of all. It is the
Chinese girl in the program, for example, who is
most firmly opposed to the integration of Negroes
and whites in the schools; the most poetic writer
in the class is also the best mathematician, and
sees a problem in mathematics in terms of poetic
form.
THESE, then, are some of the techniques and
results that have come out of the short experi-
ment at Houston. For someone who has taught
in the ordinary classrooms at this urban univer-
sity, they have been a telling demonstration
indeed of what can happen when the usual bar-
riers of the departments— and the usual apathetic
atmosphere of the classroom— are swept away and
182
a personal effort is made with students who want
very much to learn. Of course the experiment
has not been an unqualified success. The
methods we are now using to select students for
the special program are less than satisfactory:
we have to ask half of each class to leave the
program either because of inadequate perform-
ance or because of other factors that might have
been anticipated if our selection process had
been better. And we realize that a great deal
more can be done. This year we admitted
twenty-five students to the honors program, out
of an entering class of 1,400.
As might be expected, the answers to the ques-
tionnaires which have come from the honors pro-
gram students have been very different from
those of tlie regular students.
These students were, they said, attending the
university to learn. One boy said he was attend-
ing the university "to find out what there is to
learn." They would change a good many tilings
if they could, they reported, but they would not
like everything to be perfect, because then there
would be nothing to do. Movement and change
are essential to an interesting life, they said, ex-
pressing this idea in several different ways, but
always making clear their dislike of attempts to
bring back the past and their dislike of a static
universe.
What would they die for? A principle they be-
lieved in— if they could not live for it and
work to bring it into concrete being. They
would risk death, a good many said, for their
OAvn freedom, and even for that of others, and
they thoughtfully considered what is meant by
freedom.
Some of the answers of the honors group have
struck me as close, in their sense of concern, to
one of the more impressive statements I received.
This was written by Shimon Kushnir, an Israeli
sophomore who was enrolled in the regular col-
lege course, but whose ideas had been formed
in a very different culture from that of his fel-
low students. In answer to the final question, he
wrote:
To be wilfing to die for, sliould be a good reason.
I myself faced death sentence just by being a mem-
ber of the underground in Israel before the creation
of the state in the time of the British mandate.
Comparing the situation in Israel and observing the
American people, I found out that for a person to be
willing to die for something he has to
(1) know what he is going to die for,
(2) understand the concept of the thing he is going
to die for,
(3) know the real value of this thing,
(4) be educated for appreciation of this thing. *"
As a bachelor I have no family to protect, but
my country in a state of freedom is a thing worth
dying for.
Harper's Magazine, October 1961
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Harpers
JL magazine
HOW TO DESTROY THE CHURCHES
EDMOND CAHN
E COMEBACK OF THE STATE DEPARTMENT
JOSEPH KRAFT
INDUSTRY'S PRIVATE EYE
MORTON M.HUNT
OWARD UNIVERSITY: GAMPDS AND CAUSE
MILTON VIORST
CARTIER-RRESSDN ON PHDTD6RAPRY
rake adjuster for a Ford-built car
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Why Ford Motor Company cars are better built. One touch of the toe while backing u
and the brakes are adjusted. That's one of the self-servicing features pioneered by For
Motor Company, and standard on many of our cars. Others include 6,000 miles betwee
oil changes and minor lubrications, major lubrications that last 30,000 miles an
hfe-of-the-car transmission fluid. These are just a few of the steps already taken in For
Motor Company's determination to free you from car cares. They add up to the fa
that Ford-bu '^ cars are built to last longer, require less care, and retain their valu'
FORD: Falcon, :PD
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» Ml— W-\^\l ll-JV/. /^ .
BELL
SYSTEM
What is tlie Bell System?
HE Bell S\stem is cables and radio
ay and laboratories and manufac-
ing plants and local operating
mpanies and millions of tele-
ones in e\ery part of the country.
The Bell System is people . . .
mdreds of thousands of employees
d more than two million men and
)men who have in\ested their sav-
^s in the business.
It is more than that. The Bell
stem is an idea.
It is an idea that starts with the
)licy of providing >ou with the best
possible communications sen-ices at
the lowest possible price.
But desire is not enough. Bright
dreams and high hopes need to be
brought to earth and made to work.
You could have all the equipment
and still not ha\e the ser\ice you
know toda\-.
You could ha\e all the separate
parts of the Bell System and not have
the benefits of all those parts fitted
together in a nationwide \\hole.
It's the time-pro\ed combination
of research, manufacturing and
operations in one organization—
with close teamwork betv^een all
three — that results in good senice,
low cost, and constant improvements
in the scope and usefulness of your
telephone.
No matter whether it is one of
the many tasks of e\eryda}' opera-
tion—or the special skills needed to
invent the Transistor or de\elop
communication by satellites— the
Bell System has the \\ill and the way
to get it done.
And a spirit of courtesy and ser\'-
ice that has come to be a most im-
portant part of tlie Bell S}stem idea.
BELL TELEPHONE SYSTEM
leriean Telephone & Telegraph Company • Bell Telephone Laboratories • Western Electric Company • New England Telephone & Telegraph Company • Southern New England Telephone Com-
ity • New York Telephone Company • New Jersey Bell Telephone Company • The Bell Telephone Company of Pennsylvania • Diamond State Telephone Company • The Chesapeake & Potomac
lephone Companies • Southern Bell Telephone & Telegraph Company • The Ohio Bell Telephone Company • Cincinnati & Suburban Bell Telephone Company • Michigan Bell Telephone
npany • Indiana Bell Telephone Company • Wisconsin Telephone Company • Illinois Bell Telephone Company • Northwestern Bell Telephone Company • Southwestern Bell Telephone Com-
ly • The Mountain States Telephone & Telegraph Company • The Pacific Telephone & Telegraph Company • Bell Telephone Company of Nevada • Pacific Northwest Bell Telephone Company
H AH 1' K R X B R O T J I K R S
Chairman of the Executive
Committee: cass Canfield ;
Chairman of the Board: ':
FRANK S. MACGRECOR
President:
RAYMOND C. HARWOOD
Executive Vice President:
EVAN W. THOMAS
Vice Presidents:
EUGENE EXMAN, ORDWAY TEAD,
DANIEL F. BRADLEY. JOHN FISCHER,
URSULA NORDSTROM
Treasurer: louis f. haynie
>1 A G A Z 1 N E S T A F K
Editor in Chief: JOHN fischer
Managing Editor: russell lynes I
Publisher: JOHN JAY hughes '
Editors: \
KATHERINE GAUSS JACKSON j
CATHARINE MEYER ,'
ROBERT B. SILVERS \
LUCY DONALDSON \
MARION K. SANDERS \
JOYCE BERMEL \
Contributing Editor:
WILLIAM S. WHITE
Editorial Secretary: rose daly
Editorial A ssistant:
VIRGINIA HUGHES
A D V K K T I S I N C DATA
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Telephone YUkon 6-3.^44
Production Manager: kim smith
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Telephone MUrray Hill 3-1900
HARPER'S MAGAZINE:
© 1961 by Harper & Brothers.
All rights, including translation inlo
other languages, reserved by the
Publisher in the United States. Great
Britain. Mexico, and all countries
participating in the Universal
Copyright Convention, the International
Copyright Convention, and the
Pan-American Copyright Convention.
Published monthly by Harper & Brothers,
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SUBSCRIPIION RATES: 60^ per copy;
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CHANCE OI-' ADDRESS: Six weeks-
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Address all correspondence relating
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Haroer's
MAGA
ZINE
PUBLLSHED liV
HARPER & BROTHERS
VOL. 223, NO. \U%
NOVEMBER I'JGl
ARTICLES
33 How to Destroy the Churches, Edmond Cahn
40 The Game of Words, Louis B. Salomon
43 The Comeback of the State Department,
Joseph Kraft
51 Howard University: Campus and Cause,
Milton Viorst
61 Private Eye to Industry, Morton M. Hunt
73 Henri Cartier-Bresson on the Art of Photography,
An Uhistrnted interviexv by Yvonne Baby
79 India Experiments with Sterilization,
Roiuland E~oans, Jr. ^
89 The Last Summer, David Howarth
94 Up to Our Necks in Soft, White Suds, Maya Pines
FICTION
68 In the Company of Runners, Richard Rogin
VERSE
39 The Daily Globe, Howard Nemerov
50 Rival, Phyllis Rose
93 To a Friend Whose Work Has Come to Triumjjh,
Anne Sexton
DEPARTMENTS
4 Letters
12 The Editor's Easy Chair— a hopeful letter to
FOWLER HAMILTON, John Fiscliev
26 After Hours, /. A. Maxtone Graham
98 Public 8c Personal— THE new irresponsibles,
William S. White
109 The New Books, Paul Pickrcl
124 The Master Journalist of American Fiction,
Louis Au( Jiindoss
128 Music in the Round, Discus
133 Jazz Notes, Eri( Larrabee
ARTisrs: V.n\n. .M.niiii Roscii/wcij:;: 26. V. M. Bodeckeri
James Frankfort: .51. AValtcr Fcrro; fi8, 70, 72. F.tl Yotin^:
photos Ijy Henri (-arlicr-lires.son; 89, 91, Tony Buonpai
9-1-97, Robert Osborn.
START YOUR CHILD ON A SENSIBLE READING PLAN based on exciting books about science and HISTORY. . .
designed to instill a lifetime love of good books and to assist him-without pressure-with his school work
AN IDEAL GIFT FOR CHRISTMAS OR BIRTHDAYS (see below)
WITH A FOUR-MONTH TRIAL SUBSCRIPTION TO
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A BOOK CLUB FOR BOYS AND GIRLS 8 TO 14
UNDER THE DIRECTION OF Book-of-tHe-MontH Club
THIS PERSONAL* TRANSISTOR RADIO
GIVEN TO YOUR CHILD
THE PLAN • To encourage— tfiffcoMf pressure —
a natural love of reading is the sound educa-
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Most of the Club's selections in history are
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to the benefit of our young members, other
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THE LANDMARK BOOKS are all written by out-
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5jt: THE SYSTEM IS SIMPLE • Each month your
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50 BOOKPLATES
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library building
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you wish to obtain a subscription as a
iristmas or birthday surprise, simply
eck the appropriate box in the coupon,
le enrollment gifts and the first purchase
11 be sent in a package plainly labeled
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iu as donor.
Zhildren who acquire the habit of reading
e inevitably better prepared for college
an non-readers - a vital matter in many
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BEGIN WITH EITHER OF THESE— OR BOTH
ALL ABOUT THE
HUMAN BODY
by Bernard
Glemser
PROFILES
IN COURAGE
by John F.
Kennedy
Book-of-the-Month Club, Inc., 345 Hudson St., N.Y. 14, N.Y. 13-11
YOUNG READERS OF AMERICA* Branch
Please enroll the child named below in a four-month trial snbscriptlon, as
indicated below, to Young Readers of America and, with the purchase of
the first book(s) specified, send him, free (there is a small charge for
postage and handling), the PERSONAL TRANSISTOR RADIO and the fifty
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shipments of books for the child.
CHECK BELOW THE DIVISION (OR DIVISIONS) IN WHICH
YOU WISH YOUR CHILD ENROLLED
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(plus a small cliarge for postage and handling) for each book,
□ HISTORY. Send one history book each month and bill me at $1.8.">
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□ SCIENCE and HISTORY. Send one science and one history l)ook
each month and bill me at S3. 33 — a discount of 10% (plus a
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As the child's first purchase send the book (or books) checked at the left.
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O
ZB
NOTE TO PARENTS: All About the Hu-
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includes an illustrated explanation of
the process of reproduction that has
been called "a model of clarity and
dignity."
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two weeks for delivery)
NOTE: In Canada, LANDMARK (history) and ALLABOUT (science)
BOOKS are $2.0.5 each ($.■!. 6n for a rombinalion subscription) plus
postapre and hanflling. and are shipped diit^i frer from Toronto.
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LETTERS
Urbanites in Aims
To THE Editors:
"Violence in the City Streets" [Jane
Jacobs, September] should be read by
all architects, planners, and government
officials who are concerned with the fu-
ture of our cities. Mrs. Jacobs . . . un-
derstands basic human nature and how
people interact. This kind of under-
standing should underlie all city plan-
ning if we are to create a livable
environment for people. . . .
Philip Will, Jr.. Pres.
American Institute of .Architects
Chicago. 111.
.\s a city planner, I object strenuously
to .Mrs. Jacobs' article . . . when she
says, "One of the main tenets of plan-
ners is that the Plan shf)uld anticipate
everything and then permit no changes."
. . . W'hatever her motive, the result is
defamation, derogation, and misrepre-
sentation of the character and beliefs
of .American professional j)lanning.
Jami :s E. Lee
Planning Director
Quincy, Mass.
There has grown up a kind of ortho-
doxy about housing and url)an renewal
in cities. . . . Some of the leaders in this
field fail now to recognize that it is time
for new thought. It is important that
there are people like Jane Jacobs who
have the brains and courage to point out
that the "king is wearing no clothes." I
know that this has enraged many hous-
ing people who perhaps feel that exist-
ing governmental programs somehow
will be impaired. Not at all. If such
programs are not redirected they may
not be saved at all.
John V. Lindsay
Member of Congress, N. Y.
House of Representatives
Washington, D.C.
I Mrs. Jacobs does not really hide the
I fact that she is describing Marlboro
Houses, a Brof)klyn development with
open corridors, referred to by her as
"lilenheim" Houses. Her allegation that
the development has "a fearsome prob-
lem of vandalism and scandalous behav-
ior" is utterly withf)ut foundatioiL Her
other statements about the jjroject are
also cf)mpletely urUrue.
Wn i.iAM Ri II). Ciiainiian
.\( u York City Housing .Authority
New York, N. Y.
An official report on the Marlboi
Houses balconies, from \Villiam Poi
son, Chief of the Brooklyn and Quee
Housing Division, and Harold Ginsbui
Manager of the project, dated -Augu
14, 1958, says: "Vandalism in these thr
buildings is more frequent than in oi
conventional seven (7) story building
. . . This is due to the attraction fi
teen-agers to these buildings because
the night time lighting on the balconit
The lights can be seen from a great d;
tance. There is much loitering in fi
exit stairs, writing on walls, etc."
Early in 1959 I telephoned Mr. Gir
burg, and he amplified the account
the project's troubles in that convers
tion. I took careful and accurate not
and subsequently used this material du
ing a meeting with the three housir
' commissioners (Mr. Reid was preseni
the Authority's general manager, its chi
architect, and several of its architectur
consultants. Nobody denied the fac
which were the same as presented
my article. Mr. Reid's letter is a mc
revealing illustration of one of the d
tressing characteristics of the Authorit
an apparent preference for trying
talk away— or even conceal— grave ar
destructive situations rather than to fa
up to them and to what they mean.
Jane Jaco
New York, N.
Jane Jacobs' outstanding article rin
of truth. . . . "Sound planning" is bas(|
on unsound theory. When put to tl
empirical test, it hatches three new ai
expensive problems for each old one
proposes to resolve. Mrs. Jacobs und<
stands this perhaps more precisely th.
anyone else in the field. . . .
Very Rev. Msgr. John J. Ec
Archdiocesan Conservation Coun(
Chicago, i
Aboriginal Eatin
To THE Editors:
I found Eugene Burdick's "The I
visible .Aborigine" [September] fascir
ting. I am completely puz/led, howev<
by Mr. Burdick's obvious revulsion
the aborigine's eating habits, partit
larly in his eating of the dead body
a kangaroo. I myself find nothing sava
in this, but perhaps my experieni'
since I am a woman, has been mo
savage than Mr. Burdick's.
I have spent many a winter afternon,
just before Thanksgiving, ripping o
(with ten bloody fingers) the entrails
a turkey and then chopping them in I
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|en you buy a new Polaroid 10-Sec-
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I in any light is built right in.
)k what you get:
J get an electric eye shutter that
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with speeds close to 1/ 1000th in bright
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The Automatic is always in focus. (And in
portrait position, as close as 30 inches.)
You also don't get a timer. But who
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Hang up
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be at home in
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a delightful country as richly
varied and exciting as the hats
of the peoplel Visit sophisti-
cated cities like Madrid and
Barcelona with their beautiful
avenues, parks and shops . . .
quiet little towns, unchanged
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485 Madison Avenue, New York 22
23 West Jackson Blvd., Chicago 4
453 Post Street, San Francisco 2
1418 Commerce Street, Dallas 1
13 Queen Street East, Toronto 1
;:i
LETTERS
bits with sharp knives, to be served to
innocent Mr. Burdicks next day as "gilj
lets." I have cut living oysters to bii
and combined them with bread, to siufl'
into the turkey, before taking UKdK
and thread and sewing the skin togi ilm
iicross the dead body. . . . Our caiui};
habits differ not a jot from Idje's. But
as Mr. Burdick remarked, "the civilized
nose must deny it."
Helene Hani
New York. N. '
Industrial Lun
To THE Editors:
I found "Money Bait" [Easy Chai
September] most interesting antl 1 do
think John Fischer was overly optimi!
tic about North Carolina. This Rescar
Triangle [of Chapel Hill, Durham, anc
Raleigh] has a great future, and \i>, loj
cation near the three colleges is of grea^
value. j
% Luther H. Hoi)GE$
Secretary of Comnicro
Washington, D. G
Let me add . . . the name of North
Carolina State College at Raleigh, the
third point of a Triangle in wliic^h is
contained three nationally prominent
educational institutions, all of which
are renowned for their formidable re-
search activities. The last named is an
outstanding technological college with
a staft and facilities which attract stu-
dents from around the world. . . .
In addition to corporate research fa-
cilities, the Research Triangle Institute,
a nonprofit organization formed to oper-
ate facilities for research in a wide vari-
ety of disciplines, has attained an annual'
volume of research in excess of $1 mil-
lion.
VV^e have a Regional Planning Com-
mission already at work to solve the ur-i
banization problems attendant on th^
full development of the Triangle areail
In the Research Triangle, we believe
we have a dramatic symbol of North
Carolina's determination to move to liie
forefront of our nation's scientific ellort.
Terry Sam ord
Governor of North Carolina
Raleigh, N. C.
In our budget presentation to the
Legislature last year . . . we were fortu-
nate to be able to show that the Na-
tional Bureau of Standards located ii^
Boulder partly because of the Universitjg
of Colorado. We were also al)Ie to showl
that the National Center for .Atmos-
pheric Research was established this year
in Boulder because of the University's
High Altitude Observatory. . . . IIksC
two installations alone in the years
ahead will make a tremendous contribu-
WALTER J. BLACK'S CLASSICS CLUB INVITES YOU TO ACCEPT
All ^ of these beautiful
DeLuxe Library Editions
FOR ONLY
AS A NEW MEMBER
TH^ ILIAD
OF HOMth
TTERE is a wonderful opportunity
to own an epic which has been
called one of the six best books ever
written — a book so magnificent that
Alexander the Great carried it with
him into battle in a jewelled casket!
When you read this exciting account
of the battle for Troy, you'll see why
The Iliad has stirred the pulses of
countless readers for nearly three
thousand years!
ODYSSEY
OF HOMtP.
TEAMED companion piece to The
Iliad, The Odyssey is the exciting ro-
mantic narrative of the perilous wan-
derings of Odysseus in the years after
the fall of Troy. No hero of fiction has
ever surpassed Odysseus for courage,
cleverness, and wisdom. As you thrill
to his tumultuous adventures, you
will — like millions before you — dis-
cover a never-ending fascination in
this timeless classic!
UTOPIA
BY SIR THOMAS MORE
/^AN a society be created in which
everyone lives the "good life"?
Where laws are few and simple . . .
where the working day is six hours
. . . where war does not exist? One
by one. Sir Thomas More considers
in Utopia the social and economic
problems that have beset man in all
societies, in all ages. You will be
amazed at his conclusions — and
you'll marvel at the brilliance of a
man who — four centuries ago —
could take such an enlightened view
of social progress.
Why The Classics Club Offers You This Superb Value
VILL YOU ADD these three volumes
to your library — as an introductory
'er made only to new members of The
assies Club? You are invited to join
day . . . and to receive on approval
autiful editions of the world's greatest
isterpieces.
These books, selected unanimously by
5tinguished literary authorities, were
losen because they offer the greatest
fjoyment and value to the "pressed for
ine" men and women of today.
V/hy Are Greaf Books Called "Classics"?
A true "classic" is a living book that
ill never grow old. For sheer fascina-
3n it can rival the most thrilling mod-
n novel. Have you ever wondered how
le truly great books have become "clas-
cs"? First, because they are so reada-
e. They would not have lived unless
ey were read; they would not have been
sad unless they were interesting. To be
teresting they had to be easy to under-
and. And those are the very qualities
hich characterize these selections: read-
nlity, interest, simplicity.
Only Book Club of Its Kind
The Classics Club is different from all
other book clubs. 1. It distributes to its
members the world's classics at a low
price. 2. Its members are not obligated to
take any specific number of books. 3. Its
volumes are luxurious De Luxe Editions
— bound in the fine buckram ordinarily
used for $5 and $10 bindings. They have
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nal lustre — books you and your children
will read and cherish for many years.
A Trial Membership Invifation fo You
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bership. With your first books will be
sent an advance notice about future se-
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do not wish. You need not take any speci-
fic number of books — only the ones you
want. No money in advance, no member-
ship fees. You may cancel membership
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Mail the Invitation Form now. Paper,
printing, binding costs are rising. The
low introductory price for these THREE
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less you respond promptly. THE CLAS-
SICS CLUB, Roslyn, L. I., New York.
I THE CLASSICS CLUB XZ |
I Roslyn, L. I., New York |
C Please enroll me as a Trial Member and send "^
me the THREE beautiful Classics Club Editions 5*
Cof THE ILIAD. THE ODYSSEY and L'TOPIA <
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new- member introductory price for ALL THREE S
^ volumes. If not completely satisfied after seven ^
^ ■, days' examination, I may return all 3 books and »
'&. ' owe nothinK. 7
CAs a member. I am not obligatc<l to take any '^
specific number of books, and I am to receive an ^
C advance description of future selections. Also. I <
may reject any volume before or after I receive it ^
^ and I may cancel my membership whenever I y
K wish. ^
'«. For each iuture Club volume I decide to keep j?
CI will send you the low price of only if2.S"J plus a -^
few cents mailing charges. (Books shipped in S
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Mi
:f
[please print plainly]
Address..
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'^\^\^\i^\^\i^\i^\i^\g^\^\^^\^^\^\^1i I
Montaigne would have made a
marvelous investor. Always open
to new ideas, experiences, and im-
pressions, still he was not easily
swayed. His native skepticism was
expressed in his motto, "Que sais-
je.>"—"What do I know?"— and
perhaps the finest collection of
essays ever penned.
If you're an investor or thinking
of becoming one, may we urge you
to take a leaf from Montaigne's
book.'' Be skeptical. Avoid buying
securities on tips and rumors. Know
all you can about a company be-
fore you invest in it. And be will-
ing to change your mind and your
portfolio whenever circumstances
dictate a change. Remember Mon-
taigne's inscription for his library:
"I do not understand; I pause; I
examine."
We'll be glad to help you do
your examining. That's why we
maintain a Research Department,
one of the biggest and best in the
business — to separate wheat from
chaff and dross from gold, to sup-
ply investors with pertinent facts
and figures to help them make
their investment decisions wisely.
Be sure to let us know if we can
help you.
^^ ^J MERRILL LYNCH,
H| HH pierce,
Hl^^H FEIMNER Gi SMITH INC
Members New York Stock Exchange
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LETTERS
tion not only to the economy ol the
State but also to its intellectual life. . . .
QuiGG Newton, Pres.
University oi Colorado
Boulder, (>olo.
Naturally we disagree with Mr.
Fischer when he wonders how anybody
could create either a great university or
an enticing environment in Kansas.
Most Kansans . . . already believe the
state has several institutions of stature
... in such fields as nuclear engineer-
ing, agriculture, law, aeronautical engi-
neering, printing technology, medicine,
home economics, and many other fields.
In the field of psychiatry, few, if any,
states can match the wealth and cjuality
of professional teaching talent. In look-
ing at history, Kansas has pioneered
more social legislation than any other
state.
As for the Kansas weather, let Mr.
Fischer lay down his Grapes o/ Wrath
and rub the dust of the 'thirties out of
his eyes. With our invigorating four
seasons, we really feel sorry for the
Californians 90 per cent of the time.
John H. Sticiif.r, Dir.
Kansas Industrial Development
Commission
Topeka, Kans.
Peace Corps Goals
To THE Editors:
In "The Peace Corps' Secret Mission"
[.September], Benjamin DeMott con-
cludes that Peace Corps trainees "need
to hear of the . . . vital task ... of sow-
ing democratic habits." I object to the
assumption that . . . the comnnniitics
we shall be aiding do not already con-
tain the .seeds of a democracy. . . . The
Ghanaians have a long history of demo-
cratic tradition. The structure of their
tribal societies is based upon the consent
of the people in ])olitical, religious, and
social situations. Each member learns to
participate in a culture with a system of
values satisfying to the grouj) in^()lvcd.
The American idea of citizenship is
not a new concept. Meryl Blau
Peace C^orps Volunteer
Cape Coast. Cihana
In his excellent article, Mr. DeMott
. . . explains the underlying concept of
(>)nnnunity Development. . . . I'o ad-
minister its project in East Pakistan the
Peace Corps has selected The Exjjeri-
ment in International Living precisely
because of [its] thirty years ol experience
ill fostering the democratic ideas ol com-
munity action. ... A special faculty . . .
is currently training thirty vohniiccis
ior two months at a rate of ten horns
daily, six days a week. . . . AftcT arriv-
ing in Kasi Pjikistan . . . each Peace
Corps Volunteer will live for thr.q
weeks with a separate family to abscir
the Pakistani way of life, and all wil
take a three-week course especially pre
pared for them by the Pakistan Academy
for Village Development.
.As Peace Corps projects move into the
field, I hope that Mr. DeMott will con
tinue his needed service of examininj;
the Peace Corps concept and of inter
prcting it sensitively to the .Americac
public. F. Reed Ai.xors
Project Administratoi
Peace Corps-Experiment in Inter;
Living, East Pakistan Project
Putney. V(j
Poetic Songfesi
To the Editors:
Robert Lowell's versions of "Sevei
Poems by Boris Pasternak" [September
are revealing and exciting, a real son^
fest. . . . Louise E. Hofi;
Worthington, (
I have long been peeved by the lacl
of content in modern verse. As long a
its form is satisfactory to the jjoet an<
the tasters, content has seemed to be
unimportant. The content in John V\y^
dike's "Vermont" [July] is fallacious);
Ikcause the mountain pastures an
growing up. he assumes that the dain
industry is in a decline. It is not. It i
prospering. . . . Our dairy farmers an:
the best in the country . . . good enougl
sf) that a Vermont farmer sends his chil
dren to college from land on which a
Iowa or \\'isconsin farmer would gi
bankrupt. .And then there's that ipie
tion of the slavering bear. . . . The de
sity of bear popidation is in the sout
not the north. H ever the state slioul
l)e left to its primeval condition, those
bears would be working their way
north. . . .
Senator Ralph E. Fi andei
Springfield, VI
Compulsory Healt)
To THE Editors: M
Would that life in public health werfl
as simple as Mr. Engel describes it in
"Why We Don't Wipe Out Polio" [Sepj
tember]. All it would take to get rid of
polio, syphilis, and rabies is the eiiactJ
ment of a few laws, the establisluncnl
of free clinics, and the appointment ol
health olficers with guts. Unfortunatel)j
this idea . . . makes the traditional mis'!
take of using availability and ac(epta;j
bility as synonymous terms. In our area
there are all the laws and all the freej
clinics one can wish, and yet the bij
gest gaps in imminii/ations occiu" among
the impoverished groups to whose very
Mercier
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HE LOVE POEMS S SONNETS OF
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ROUND THE WORLD IN 80 DAYS
— Jules Verne
.ES MISERABLES - Victor Hugo
Abridged to 384 pages
WDAME BOVARY - Flaubert
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HE TRAVELS OF MARCO POLO
Cobd en -Sunder son Binding
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30NE WITH THE WIND
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'HE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES
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KOBY DICK - Herman Melville
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THE BROTHERS KARAMAZOV
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WAR AND PEACE - Tolstoy
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THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII
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THE WAY OF ALL FLESH
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n Around the World D -lane Eyre (8)
in 80 Days (1) D Last Days of
n Arundel (2) Pompeii (9)
n Brothers Karamazov (3) n Les Miserables (10)
n Crime & D Poems of
Punishment (4) Shakespeare (11)
D The Crusades (5) D Madame Bovary (12)
D Gone With The Wind (6) D Moby Dick (13)
n The Silver Chalice (15)
D War ar.d Peace (16)
n Wuthering Heights (17)
□ Anna Karenina (18)
n Pride & Prejudice (19)
D Way of All Flesh (20)
n Travels of
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I MR
MRS.
I MISS
I ADDRESS.
(Please print)
CITY ZONE STATE 4-CL29
Offer gootJ in Continental USA only.
Btorytelling— the delight of
the young since earliest
time— holds a new magic
for the new generation.
Through the looking glass of tele-
vision, children enter a world of
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Captain Kangaroo, Kukla and
Ollie, Lamb Chop and Charlie
Horse, among other creatures of
fancy; and then face the real world
of such programs as "American
Newsstand," "1,2, 3-Go !" "Watch
Mr. Wizard," "On Your Mark,"
"The Twentieth Century," and
"Expedition !" They first glimpse-
then join grownups in watching —
family entertainment, news, and
documentary programs.
A lively exposure to ideas —
once limited to formal teaching
or the conversation of educated
parents — can now be part of the
home environment of children of
every background. Teachers say
that, compared to pre-television
youngsters, today's children en-
tering school are better informed,
have larger vocabularies. And
librarians say that today's pupils
borrow more books.
The right balance of entertain-
ment and information varies for
each age and for each individual.
Television, the versatile story-
teller, continues to develop its
repertoire— in children's shows,
news, adventure . . . science, his-
tory, politics . . . music, drama,
sports. Parents and teachers, the
most important storytellers, can
help youngsters choose programs
and form a pattern of viewing
most enjoyable and rewarding for
the individual child.
Television Information Office
666 Fifth Ave., New York 19, N. Y.
11
gome Television Programs
of Special Interest . . .
In November
"Little Lost Sheep"
Hans Conried and Arlene Francis
in an original comedy.
Wednesday, November 1 (10-11 PM)
"Al Smith"
Biographical- study of The Happy Warrior.
Sunday, November 5 (6-6:30 PM)
"Danny Kaye Show"
Monday, November 6 (9-10 PM)
"Moment of Decision"
Fred Astaire and Maureen O'Sullivan
in a drama of suspense.
Tuesday, November 7 (10-11 PM)
"Circle Theatre"
Documentary drama on fraudulent charities.
Wednesday, November 8 (10-11 PM)
"The Face of Spain"
Chet Huntley reports on the work, life,
and leisure of the Spanish people.
Tuesday, November 14 (10-11 PM)
"Close-Up!"
Two-part study of Berlin and East Germany.
Tuesday, November 14, 28. (10:30-11 PM)
"Vincent Van Gogh: A Self- Portrait"
Paintings, drawings, and niises en scene
from Van Gogh's life. Lee J. Cobb reads
from his letters; narration by Martin Gabel.
Friday, November 17 (9:30-10:30 PM)
"Valley of Shangri-La"
Isolated mountain kingdom in Kashmir.
Monday, November 20 (7-7:30 PM)
"An Old-Fashioncd Thanksgiving"
Charlton Heston and Dick Button in a
Currier and Ives setting.
Tuesday, November 21 (10-11 PM)
Thanksgiving Day Parades
Thursday, November 23
(10 AM-12; 10:30-12)
"General Ulysses S. Grant"
A Project 20 historical essay.
Friday, November 24 (8:30-9 PM)
"Crossing the Threshold"
Diary of a hypothetical flight in orbit.
Friday, November 24, (9-10:30 PM)
"Victoria Regina"
Julie Harris and James Donald star.
Thursday, November 30 (9:30-11 PM)
Regularly Scheduled
Mon.-Fri.: Continental Classroom:
Modern Algebra
American Government
College of the Air:
The New Biology
Mondays: Expedition!
Wednesdays: David Brinkley's Journal
Thursdays: CBS Reports
Fridays: Eyewitness
Frank McGee's
Here & Now
Saturdays: Update
Accent
Sundays: Camera Three
Washington Conversation
Directions '62
Adlai Stevenson Reports/
Issues and Answers
Patterns in Music
Wisdom
Chet Huntley Reporting
The Twentieth Century
Meet the Press
1, 2, 3— Go!
Walt Disney's Wonderful
• World of Color
Note : Times (EST), programs, titles, and casts are
subject to change. Please consult local listings.
Television Information Office
,666 Fifth Ave., New York 19, N.Y.
LETTERS
doorstep we are attempting to bring the
service. . . .
it is quite true that sypiiilis . . . con-
trol efforts are sometimes hampered by
the reluctance of private physicians to
report to the health department; but it
is also true that this situation can l)e
corrected where the heahli officer plays
an active role in his medical society and
shows that he is a physician and man,
not a paper shuffler and a mouse such
as Mr. Engel's friend in New York.
Herbert Bauer, M.D., Pres.
California Conference of
Local Health Officers
Davis, Calif.
I did not suggest that effective public
iieaith work is simple. I said it recjuires
imagination and courage to urge strong
pui)lic-hcalth measures where these are
necessary. The health officer who said
tliai public-health officers today are
"trained to be mice" is neither mouse
nor paper shuffler. He is an M.D. and
professionally trained public-health spe-
(ialist who has long held a key public-
health post. Leonard Engel
Larcimiont, N.Y.
Leonard Lngcl's article also mentions
rabies. He says that "not a single state
. . . requires immunization of its dog
population." West Virginia, at one time
a hoti)ed of rabies, for several years has
re(juired the mandatory vaccination of
all dogs against this disease. . . . Twenty
years ago ... it was not unusual to see
several cases in one week. During the
last few years not a single case of rabies
has been observed. .All of which proves
Mr. Engel's point.
Harry J. Fallon, D.V.M.
Sec, W. Va. Veterinary Medical .Assoc.
Huntington, W. Va.
Pay for the Jobless
To the Editors:
Seth Levine is right [in "How to Play
the Unemployment-insurance Game,"
August]. To collect unemployment in-
surance benefits while working is illegal.
But he appears to condone collusive em-
ployer fraud. If "Henry Smith" refused
on-the-record w'ork, the clear duty of the
superintendent and his employer was to
notify us so benefit payments could be
halted. Mr. Levine suggests such collu-
sion is commonplace. But thieves fall
out. Our staff knows where to look for
fraud. Last year, 364 cases were prose-
cuted and 362 convictions were secured
with penalties as high as a year in jail
and fines of several hundred dollars.
Mr. Levine says the requirement that
benefit claimants conduct an active
search for work is a "dead letter." The
fact: About 200,000 claimants a year are
denied benefits in New York state be-
cause of inadequate job-hunting.
"No one today," says Mr. Levine, "be-
lieves it is better to earn a dollar than
to collect one." The tact: .About 40 per
cent of all claimants wait a week or more
before seeking benefits; 20 per cent wait
lour weeks or more, and the average
1960 claimant dropped out after 13.3
weeks, although 26 weeks are possilile.
Mr. Levine says State Employment
Service representatives should be can-
vassing employers for jobs but he has
never seen one. The fact: In 1960 New
York State Employment Service inter-
viewers found and filled 807,502 jobs in
business and industry. Mr. Levine says
most businessmen regard the State Em-
ployment Service as a source of unskilled
laljor. The fact: In 1960, businessmen
filled-through NYSES- 164,000 skilled
and semi-skilled jobs.
The state has conducted hundreds of
unemployment-insurance workshops for
employer organizations; it provides every
employer with a comprehensive hand-
book which outlines every known legiti-
mate method of holding down unem-
ployment costs; and it offers expert con-
sultant services on succcsshil liir.ng, em-
ployment and turnf)ver-c()inr<)i tech-
niques.
Alfred L. Green, Exec. Dir.
State of New York Dept. of Labor
Division of Employment
New York,' xN. Y.
Punitive measures alone will not en-
gender understanding and acceptance of
law. My major purpose in writing the
article was to spur a more extensive edu-
cational program among workers as to
the nature and purpose of the unem-
ployment insurance laws. Mr. Green's
Division has published an excellent
Claimant's Booklet of Information ex-
plaining what unemployment insurance
is and is not. The job now is to get this
information across to more and more
workers. Seth Levine
New York, N. Y.
A House Divided
To the Editors:
With pleasure 1 followed the vitcllo
tonnaio to and fro via station wagon
[in "On Both Your Houses," September].
Sylvia Wright left me thinking al)out
another vital issue: What does she do
aljout her subscriptions to Harper's?
One for each house, of course. What
does she do for reading on the way be-
tween houses when the station wagon is
delayed by traffic tie-ups? Does Mi.ss
Wright dash out to the newsstand or
has she an extra station-wagon subscrip-
tion? Dorothy B. Hansen
Deerfield Beach, Fla.
JOHN FISCHER
1
THE EDITOR'S EASY CHAIR
A Hopeful Letter to Fowler Hamilton
u
"Why should we pay taxes luhen we can always
get more money from the Americans?"
A wealthy landowner of Nepal,
quoted in Time, February 3, 1961
Dear Fowler:
As a taxpayer, I was delighted to hear that you
will be taking over the job of running our
foreign-aid program.
For one thing, I know you are a hard man.
When we started working together on that intel-
ligence operation back during the war, I found
that a certain gaiety of manner was, in your case,
the cover for a streak of tungsten-carbide ruth-
lessness. It was useful then, and it will be even
more welcome now. Like a lot of other bled-pale
taxpayers, I need a hard man to protect me—
from that non-taxpayer in Nepal and millions of
leeches like him all over the world.
Moreover, as the head of the new Agency for
International Development, you will be taking
on what may well be the toughest management
job in the world. You inherit a staff which is, in
many places, badly demoralized, cluttered with
deadwood, and not at all sure what it is supposed
to be doing. As usual, the Civil Service rules will
make it nearly impossible for you to get rid of
the lead-bottoms, the soft touches, and the woolly-
headed; but I think I know how you will cope
with that. Within a couple of weeks a lot of these
characters are likely to find themselves assigned
to posts in the hottest, smelliest swamps that
Assam and West Africa can provide; if they don't
resign, they can stay there till they die of amoebic
dysentery, malaria, and dhobie's itch.
But these administrative details will, of course,
be the least of your problems. What makes me
really cheerful about your appointment is the
fact that you have had a good deal of experience
in economic warfare. You will know how to use
foreign aid as a weapon.
So long as you use it that way-as the best
weapon we have in t))c not-so-rold war that we'll
be figliting for so long as anybody can see into
the future— then I'm pretty sure that most tax-
payers will be willing to give you whatever money
you need, for as long as you need it. But if you
fritter it away for other purposes— to prop up
shaky dictators, for example, or in a heart-
warming effort to abolish poverty where poverty
is inevitable— then you will have an eruption on
your hands. If I read the seismograph correctly,
the public's annoyance with that kind of waste
has just about reached the explosion point.
For some of your predecessors didn't know just
what they were meant to accomplish with all that
money. Buy friendship? Strengthen allies? Feed
everybody who is hungry? Undermine the Soviet
empire? Carry out a Senator's pet project? In-
dustrialize Africa? Arm Vietnamese guerrillas?
Clinch a few doubtful votes in the United Na-
tions? Since in recent years the White House
seldom specified precise objectives, the poor ad-
ministrators tended to dribble out the cash for a
little of everything. Usually with no strings at-
tached. That has been the No. 1 fetish— for we
were never, never meant to "interfere with the
internal affairs" of the countries who got our
money. Even when everybody knew that El
Presidente was a thief, we dared not insult him
by asking for a look at the books.
From your past performance, I'm fairly certain
you won't operate that way. Wall Street people
tell me you are a tough negotiator. And I know
you are sophisticated enough to realize that
everything America does (or doesn't do) in the
way of foreign aid is going to interfere with
somebody's internal affairs. So I trust you will
abandon our traditional hypocrisy, tie a chain on
every dime— and yank hard if it isn't spent in the
clearly defined interests of the United States.
That will offend a lot of our benefactees, of
course, especially the so-called neutral nations.
Don't let that give you gray hairs. We have
worried too much about what they think of us;
let them worry a while about what we think
of them. Besides they have finally taught us—
notably at their Belgrade conference— that being
nice to them gets us nowhere. What does in-
fluence them is (a) greed and (b) fear. The more
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14
THE EDITOR'S EASY CHAIR
Russia bullies them, the lower they kow-tow. You
will, I am sure, draw the appropriate conclusion.
I also hope you will tell us a good deal more
about where our money goes, and why.
Yugoslavia, for instance. The billion and a
half dollars that we've poured into that country
was clearly a sound investment. It enabled the
Yugoslavs to break away from the Soviet empire,
;ind it helped block the Communist conquest of
Greece— since that operation was, until 1948,
largely based on Yugoslav soil. Here, indeed, is
perhaps the best case of the successful use of aid-
as-a-weapon.
But is there any reason to give Yugoslavia an-
other penny? Its economy has now passed the
take-off point, and is growing fast. There is no
longer any real danger that the country will slip
back under Russian control (for reasons noted in
this space last July and August). On the other
hand, Tito has plainly demonstrated that he is
no friend of ours— that he is eager, in fact, to
make mischief for us whenever he finds a chance.
Maybe there are good arguments, unknown to
me, why we should— in our own self-interest-
continue to help him. If so, the American tax-
payers have a right to hear them, before he gets
his next check. Why not let Tito himself stand
up and explain: What's In It For Us? If he can't
make a persuasive case, please tell him to take his
hands out of our pockets.
The same goes for Franco. Apparently the bil-
lions we have given him have been largely stolen,
wasted, or spent on arms which serve only one
purpose— to keep the little dictator in power.
The Spanish people, and the Spanish economy,
are in worse shape today than they were before
our "aid" started. Moreover, it seems certain that
the country will remain economically paralyzed
so long as it is controlled by Franco and his
palace guard of corrupt incompetents— no matter
how much cash we give them.
All we got out of the deal was three air fields
and a naval base. At one time they may have
been worth it. Today they are obsolescent; each
of them could be wiped out by a single Russian
missile, and their original purpose can now be
better served by the Polaris submarines. So why
shouldn't you drop Spain from your charity list?
Also Poland. We have been giving the Poles
about $130-million worth of food a year, on the
dubious theory that if they were not entirely de-
pendent on Russia they might hang onto some
remnant of liberty. Do you have any evidence,
Fowler, that this theory is working? If so, we'd
like to sec it, because those remnants seem to be
shrinking every day.
Meanwhile, other evidence suggests that our
ff)od-for-Poland has helped Khrushchev more
than the Poles. He has been able to save several
hundred thousand tons of grain, which used to
go to Poland-and which he is now reshipping to
China, C/cchoslovakia, and East Germany.
At the moment food appears to be the weakest
beam in the whole structure of the Communist
world. Rations are thin everywhere beyond the
Iron Curtain, and the Chinese admit they are on
the borderline of famine. Hunger, in fact, may
be the main checkrein holding China back from
the conquest of Southeast Asia; and it is unques-
tionably an obstacle to Russia's economic pene-
tration of Africa and Latin America. Even the
Cubans are getting lean.
It was Lenin, you will remember, who an-
nounced in 1919 that "Food is a weapon." So
long as the Communists continue to use it as a
weapon, isn't it a little silly for us to put it into
their hands? Is there any sound reason for us to
send another grain of wheat to the Poles, or any
other Kremlin satellite?
DEALING with our enemies is, of course, the
easy part of your new job. We taxpayers hope
you are also tough enough to say "No" to some
of our friends.
You might start with the Europeans. Just after
the war we startec^ supplying them with arms, to
hold back the Communist pressure toward the
West. That made a lot of sense in those days,
when Europe was in ruins. But it makes no sense
today, when Western Europe is enjoying the
biggest boom in history. Our partners in NATO
can well afford to pay for their own planes and
tanks— but thev still let us pick up the tab.
Nearly a half-billion dollars a year is earmarked,
in the current aid program, for military help to
Western Europe.
How come? Not one of the NATO countries
'is carrying its fair share of the load. West Ger-
many—the richest of all, and the one most
directly menaced by Russia— spends less than
5 per cent of its gross national product for de-
fense. Only the United Kingdom spends as much
as 8 per cent— while we spend more than 10.
Moreover, our NATO allies have never yet met
the military goals they agreed to, in terms of
men and equipment. Nor is there any prospect
that they ever will, so long as Rich Uncle pays
their bills. That's only human nature, so we
are as much to blame as they are. But can't you
break the news, Fowler, that Uncle is fed up?
Our Latin friends could do with a few plain
words, too.
For example, when Cheddi Jagan was elected
prime minister of British Guiana a few weeks
ago, he announced that he would condescend to
accept our money. He is against "Yankee im-
perialism," of course. After all, he is an acknowl-
edged Marxist, who plans to follow "a policy of
neutralism like Nehru and Nasser." But since
Tito, Nehru, and Poland get American aid, he
wants his share of the gravy.
Perhaps Dr. Jagan should be told these facts
of life:
1. There isn't enough gravy to go around.
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THE EDITOR'S EASY CHAIR
Even if the United States— and Rus-
sia, and Western Europe— cut off
their own economic growth and
poured all of their savings into the
underdeveloped countries, they still
couldn't provide enough capital to
industrialize all of those nations as
fast as they demand. The aid which
actually will be available, from all
sources. East and West, won't begin
to meet the expectations of Dr.
Jagan and his sixty-odd rival claim-
ants. Some will have to do without;
none will get all he wants.
2. Many of the underdeveloped
countries will always be poor. They
just don't have the resources to sup-
port a modern industrial society—
nor the land to feed their already
hungry and fast-growing popula-
tions. (D. W. Brogan has estimated
that at least half of the new nations
created in the last decade can never
hope to be self-supporting.)
3. Latin America, in particular, is
going to be disappointed. Most
Latins apparently expect the Ken-
nedy Administration's Alliance for
Progress program to solve all their
woes. It cannot— simply because the
Latin American population is grow-
ing 3 per cent a year. There is virtu-
ally no prospect that the continent
as a whole can increase its production
of food and manufactured goods at a
rate much faster than that, no mat-
ter how much Yankee money it gets.
The luckier countries— Brazil, per-
haps, and Argentina, Venezuela and
a few others— may achieve a slow
improvement in their living stand-
ards. The others will have to run
their fastest just to stay in the same
place.
4. What the Latins (and most
other underdeveloped areas) need
more than money— or anything else-
is birth control. But for domestic
political reasons, on this problem
we can offer no help.
5. Given these facts, it makes sense
for us to concentrate our help in
those countries where it is likely to
produce really worthwhile results—
both economic and political. (India
may be the prime case. It has a fight-
ing chance to build both a stable
economy and a democratic govern-
ment; and its race with China may
well determine the future of all Asia.
Annoying as Nehru may be from
Lime to time, this looks like a good
place to put our blue chips.) But the
hopeless cases will have to go to the
end of the queue. Can Dr. Jagan
prove his case isn't hopeless?
YOUR big trouble— as I'm sure you
know— will not come from the young
rebels like Jagan. It will come from
men who look just as respectable as
you— the bankers, generals, and land-
owners who have long formed the
traditional ruling class in much of
Latin America.
They are the rich Guatemalans
who won't let their Congress pass an
income tax— even though social in-
justice in their country is so flagrant
that they had to be rescued from a
Marxist regime only a few years ago,
and may soon be threatened by an-
other. They are the Brazilian mil-
lionaires who put their money into
real-estate speculation (and Swiss
banks) instead of industrial develop-
ment. They are the twelve families
who own El Salvador, and don't be-
lieve in either education or shoes for
their peasants.
You will meet them soon enough,
because President Kennedy has
warned them that they will have to
mend their ways if they hope to see
any of that Alliance for Progress
cash. So they will promise you any-
thing you ask— and deliver nothing.
For any real reform would mean
the end of them, their families, and
the delightful way of life they have
enjoyed for the last three hundred
years. Like Winston Churchill, they
have no intention of presiding over
the liquidation of their empires.
The smart ones realize, of course,
that such empires can't last much
longer. They have seen them crum-
ble already, in Mexico, Venezuela,
Costa Rica, Cuba. They are likely
therefore to steal all they can-from
their countrymen, and from your aid
funds— and then to skip out just be-
fore the revolution pops. After all,
that plan worked fine ror Peron,
Batista, Jimenez, Patiiio, most of the
Trujillo family, and plenty of other
strong men who are now living it up
in St. Tropez and Miami Beach.
The only way you can beat their
game is to side with The Good
Revolutionists-the democratic ones
like Figucres, Munoz-Marin, Gal-
legos, and Betancourt. In the long
run, such men are the only workable
alternative to the other kind of
revolutionists, of the Castro, Ja-
You feel you're "in Japan" t
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symmetry of a shoji screen yi
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But on Japan Air Lines, your inti
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refresh your face and hands with
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There's sake to sip while an oce|
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window today? Why?
A child is an island of curiosity surrounded by a
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how and what— and why.
Some children grow up still searching for an-
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richest resources. That is why Shell provides for
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to the unique Shell Merit Fellowship for training
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Shell knows men and women who grow up and
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them become part of Shell Research. They know
about petroleum and atoms, about the bottom of
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and what and why.
Often they find out, and you can see the results:
adhesives strong enough to hold airplanes to-
gether, new chemicals that help farmers grow
richer crops, man-made rubber that duplicates
tree-grown for the first time, steadily better gaso-
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can the atom serve man in more ways? What
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Why must people all over the world still suffer
from hunger? Why?
Why is a child. Why is Shell Research.
The next time you see the sign of the Shell, let
it remind you of the search that never ends for
new and better products from petroleum.
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i
THE EDITOR'S EASY CHAIR
21
gan, Arbenz, and Guevara variety.
For genuine social revolution— as
contrasted with the old-fashioned
palace coup, which changed nothing
iDut the hand in the till— is probably
inevitable in most of Latin America.
It offers the only hope for even those
modest gains, in living standards and
human dignity, which the Alliance
for Progress can honestly promise.
Your job is to preside over that revo-
lution—to guide it, nudge it along,
and make it work. If you can't do it,
the Kremlin has plenty of trained
men ready and eager to take it over.
A STRANGE assignment for a
Wall Street lawyer? Indeed it is—
especially since some of your friends
are bound to get hurt. Certain big
American corporations aren't going
to like it— United Fruit, for example,
and some (though not all) of the oil
and mining companies which have
enjoyed privileged positions in a
number of Latin countries. Often
they have been silent partners of the
old ruling group. Lots of Latins
suspect they can block any real
change— until a local Castro comes
along.
I suspect you are plenty durable
enough to handle that kind of pres-
sure, even if it comes from solid busi-
nessmen you have known for years,
and who may have been valued cus-
tomers of your old firm. But it won't
be any fun.
If it is any comfort, you can look
forward to dealing simultaneously
with a different kind of pressure:
blackmail. Your new clients are ex-
pert at it, because most of them have
been using it on us for years. All
they have had to say is: "Give me
what I want"— it may be a hydro-
electric project, or a flock of tanks
to keep the army happy, or a few
million to replace what The Boys
stole out of the last budget— "or I
will go to Moscow."
Nearly always they have been get-
ting away with this kind of bluff. The
one memorable exception was Nas-
ser; when John Foster Dulles refused
to give him his Aswan Dam, he did
turn to Moscow, and he did get it
there. But curiously enough, Egypt
has not yet been gobbled up. In fact,
Nasser has outlawed the local Com-
munist party, and he is, if anything,
a bit more respectful to Americans
than he used to be. He still calls us
monsters, of course, but we are only
one-headed monsters now.
At some point, you too will have
to say "No"— simply because you
won't have enough money to pay off
all the blackmailers who will be
calling on you. When some sheik or
generalissimo wants another $39 mil-
lion to build a palace for his latest
mistress, you will have to tell him to
send the bill to Mr. Khrushchev.
But not always. For sometime that
sheik actually will be gobbled up if
he goes to the Kremlin; and he may
hold a chunk of real estate the West
simply can't afford to lose. In that
case, you had better grit your teeth
and pay up— and start thinking how
to explain the deal to the Appropri-
ations Committees. When to be hard,
and to whom, is always a delicate
question; but it is these little nu-
ances which will make your job so
interesting.
Hopefully yours.
MR. HINDS DISCOVERED
THE Search for William E.
Hinds," published in Harper's
last July and later condensed in
Reader's Digest, is bringing "an
avalanche of letters" to the author.
Dr. Walter Prescott Webb of the
University of Texas. The article told
of the efforts of Dr. Webb to find out
something about a benefactor whom
he had never met— a New York busi-
nessman who began in 1904 to write
encouraging letters to Webb, then a
poor boy on a Texas farm, and later
helped finance Webb's education.
The hundreds of letters received
so far fall into five groups:
1. Those from Hinds's relatives
and friends who were able to pass
along some information. They es-
tablished these scanty facts. Hinds
was born in Brooklyn or Staten Is-
land on December 10, 1850, and died
of diabetes sixty-one years later in
Jersey City. He was apparently first
buried in St. Albans, Vermont, but
the body was later moved by a
brother to Burlington.
For much of his life Hinds worked
for a wholesale dry-goods firm, H. B.
Claflin Co., where his father had
been an executive. After his retire-
ment, he began importing European
novelties which he probably sold by
mail from a New York office, and
later from his home in Jersey City.
Apparently Hinds was never a
very aggressive businessman. He left
only a modest estate. He never mar-
ried, had no hobbies except reading,
and presumably helped no other
youngster than Webb— whom he car-
ried on his account books as "my
boy protege in Texas."
2. A second group of letters came
from people whose careers had also
been helped along by anonymous
benefactors. For example, a Cali-
fornia woman told how she had been
left penniless when her father, a
prospector, died with no assets but a
host of friends and a reputation for
integrity. A merchant who had
known him placed a glass bowl on
the end of his counter with a placard
reading "For John's Girl." The
money poured into it, from mer-
chants, miners, gamblers, and the
other characters around the booming
mining town— enough to enable her
to finish her education. She is now
a successful author.
3. By far the largest number of
Dr. Webb's correspondents wrote to
say that they had been deeply
touched by the article. A United
States Senator noted that "I might
have felt embarrassed at the tears
that filled my eyes as I read it," if
another Senator had not already con-
fessed that he and his wife cried
as they read it together. Others re-
ported that they had been moved to
help needy people themselves.
4. A few letters came from young
people asking help, from parents
writing on behalf of their children-
even one from a girl who wanted
money to put her young man
through college.
5. A New Englander who asked
that his name be withheld sent a
check to start a memorial fund "to
provide revolving interest-free loans
to students who need funds for the
completion of their education."
Dr. Webb added an equal sum
from his own pocket and turned the
money over to the University of
Texas. Other contributions are now
flowing in, and the University's
Chancellor, Dr. Harry Ransom, has
predicted that the Hinds- Webb Fund
will become "one of the great tradi-
tions of the university."
Anyone wishing to contribute may
write directly to Dr. W. P.. Webb,
College Station, Austin, Texas.
A Public Interest Advertisement Addressed Especially to the Readers of Harper
President Kennedy's call for physical fitness has alerted many of us to a major health problem facing most
Americans. But what can each of us do about it? Here are some specific recommendations.
WE MAY BE SITTING OURSELVES TO DEATH
by FRANK R. NEU,
Director, Pubhc Relations, American Dairy Association
The Human Machine Needs Regular Physical
Activity To Function At Its Very Best
The subject of physical fitness has received much
publicity and a great deal of lip service in recent
years. President Kennedy has issued another call to
the nation to become alarmed about and to take some
action to correct the apparently poor state of physical
well-being in this country.
There is a note of urgency behind this latest call
for action to build physical fitness. At a time when
the nation faces a growing need for strength in its
people as well as in its machines, the record for
physical fitness is not one to be proud of.
The Selective Service system has been rejecting one
out of each two young men called for duty in the Armed
Forces because of physical, mental, or moral unfitness.
Physical unfitness ranks high, and it is very likely that
some of the mental and moral unfitness may be the
result of the physical problems.
Studies among American youths, in comparison
with European youths, have been conducted by Dr.
Hans Kraus and Dr. Sonja Weber in the Posture Clinic
of the Xew York Columbia-Presbyterian Hospital.
Six tests for muscular strength and flexibility were
given to more than 4,000 American children and to
almost 3,000 children in Switzerland, Austria, and
Italy. The results show that almost 5S% of the Amer-
ican youth-s failed one or more of, these tests while less
than 9% of the European children failed one or more.
Yale University also reports a steady decline in the
state of physical fitness of freshmen entering each
year. While 51% of the class of 1951 passed the fit-
ness tests at Yale, 43% of the class of 1956 passed, and
only 38% of the class of 1960 were able to perform
satisfactorily.
But physical fitness, or the lack of it, is not a prob-
lem confined to ytjuth alone. It is a growing health
menace to ytjung arlnlts and middle aged adults, and
w<- might unfl'T«.t;.nfl ^■.].^, .1,;. ;. ,i-,Kr if vvc take a
look into the life of Mr. Joe Citizen, middle class
suburban dweller, on an ordinary day.
JOE MOVES FEW MUSCLES
Joe drags himself out of bed at 7 a.m., showers,
shaves, gulps down a hasty and nutritionally inade-
quate breakfast. His lovely wife dri\es him to the rail-
road station. Even if Joe drove himself, he wouldn't
get much exercise because his car has power steering,
power brakes, power window lifts, power seat controls.
Less vigorously than she might desire, Joe's wife re-
cei\es a goodbye kiss as Joe slides out of the car, walks
a few steps to board the 7:47. Half an hour later he
walks almost half a block to catch a bus which de-
posits him 22 steps from his office building door.
Joe is likely to sit at his desk until noon. If he's
ha\"ing a busy day, he may ask his cute blonde sec-
retary to bring in a sandwich and a cup of coff^ee
for his lunch. On the other hand, Joe may be one of
those tycoons who closes big business deals over
"martinis-and-rich-food" lunches, following which he
returns to the office and sits some more until quitting
time. Arriving home, Joe feels the need of a drink or
two before dinner to "unwind."
After eating a heavy meal, Joe decides that tonight
he needs relaxation because of his rough day at the
office. He proceeds to relax by slouching into a chair
before the television set. After sitting through the
late movie, he crawls into bed, awakens at 7 a.m. the
next morning to start all over again.
Along comes Saturday. Joe feels that his tough
week of rowing an oar in the stream of commerce and
industry has earned him a few hours on the golf course.
He drives to the country club, mounts an electric golf
cart, play."* 18 holes, joins the boys back in the club-
hou.sc for a few drinks. Feeling good about all the
exercise he's had, Joe drives home and eats a big
A Public Interest Advertisement Addressed Especially to the Readers of Harper s
dinner, knowing that he has used extra energy play-
ing golf, of course.
JILL LIVES LONGER
Let's consider Jill, Joe's wife, for a moment. Chances
are, on the basis of current statistics, Jill will outlive
Joe by anywhere from five to 25 years. Medical
science is not sure yet whether this is because Jill has
different hormones from Joe or whether it is a result
of the different roles which Joe and Jill fulfill in our
society because of these different hormones.
The average suburban Jill is likely to be a home-
maker responsible for rearing two or more children.
It is safe to assume that any woman with this responsi-
bility is going to get a lot of daily exercise no matter
how many gadgets she has to help her do the house-
work. A homemaker does a lot of walking each day
merely to push the buttons and start the machines
that wash the clothes, cook the meals, and remove the
dust. And she also does a good deal of bending each
day to pick up after Joe and the junior members of
the family. All in all, Jill is likely to get much more
exercise than Joe. This may have a significant rela-
tionship to Jill's outliving Joe, who no longer hikes
the dusty trail to bring home the buffalo meat and
hides to feed and clothe his family.
So much for Joe and Jill. Does all the hue and
cry about our low state of physical fitness really have
any rational basis, or is this merely an effort to sell
more gymnasium equipment that will gather dust
after a week of use?
SUPERIOR MENTAL POWER
IS NOT ENOUGH
If one accepts the theory that man rules the Earth
because he has, thus far, at least, won the race among
the species in the "survival of the fittest," why should
we be worried? Is it not mental agility, rather than
physical fitness, that should concern us because it is
his brain power, not his muscles, which has enabled
man to control enough of his environment to master
his planet and prepare to explore others?
Obviously, superior mental development is chiefly
responsible for making man what he is, but we should
not overlook that man's brain is encased within a
body that has certain needs that must be met. Med-
ical science has learned to control most of the diseases
of childhood and many of the other diseases which
formerly cut short many human lives. The major chal-
lenges to medicine today are to solve the problems of
cancer and various forms of cardiovascular disease,
and, perhaps most important of all, to teach human
beings that the human body, adaptable as it is to a
variety of environmental conditions, does require cer-
tain minimum standards of care.
It is perhaps conceivable that through the process
of evolution there may eventually develop a human or
super-human species that is largely brain, with only
enough additional physical development to provide
one finger for pushing buttons. If computers are ever
able to take over some of the more intricate thought
processes of the human brain, we might even reach
that stage where the machine can reproduce itself,
thus eliminating the need for human beings to push
the buttons.
THERE ARE SOUND REASONS
FOR PHYSICAL FITNESS
In the meantime, however, accepting ourselves as
the human beings we are, there are certain things
which most of us ought to be doing in order to live
more comfortably, perhaps more enjoyably, and may-
be even a bit longer. There are some very good rea-
sons for us to learn to give ourselves much improved
physical care.
There is very legitimate concern about the generally
poor state of physical fitness among men of military
age. In a world in which men have not yet learned to
live together in peace, it is essential, of course, that a
nation have the ability to defend itself and to survive
under the most adverse conditions. Our position is
weakened by the vast loss of effective manpower
through poor care of our physical selves, not only be-
cause we are weak physically but also because this
often leads to mental retardation.
There are sound reasons for believing, too, that
many of the common complaints of modern American
civilization — obesity which concerns some 30 to 40
million among us, otherwise unexplained "fatigue,"
and the "let-down feeling" about which so many com-
plain daily— may be traced to neglect of our physical
development and maintenance.
Assuming that physical fitness is our goal, what
kind of programs must we develop and follow to
achieve this? Too many physical fitness campaigns in
the past have been geared to the needs of those who
already are well along on the road to being physically
fit. Or physical fitness has been advocated by those
people who seem to think that we all need bulging
muscles and taut tummies so that we might stand
around on the beach in very brief leopard skins to be
admired by one and all.
Physical fitness is not synonymous with calisthenics
and weight lifting, although both of these are certainly
excellent forms of exercise for those who enjoy them.
Fitness is, rather, a matter of achieving an optimum
state of well-being that enables us to live and to enjoy
living to the maximum extent that our mental devel-
opment and environment offer us.
Heredity, obviously, plays the fundamental role in
A Public Interest Advertisement Addressed Especially to the Readers of Harpers
THE NUTRIENTS IN MILK
111 1 11 Two 8-ounce glosses of milk provide opproximofely the following percentages of the Recommended Doily Dietary Allowances
1 1 1 1 11 // (nutrients recommended by the Food and Nutrition Board of National Research Council to provide adequate amounts for main-
tenance of good nutrition in healthy persons):
ADULT MEN
(Boied on weight of 154 lbs , height 69 inches)
ADULT WOMEN
(Bosed on weight of 128 lbs . height 64 inches)
Calories
(o)
10-13%
14-18%
Protein
25%
31%
Calcium
71%
71%
Vitamin A
15%
15%
Vitamin D
(b)
(b)
Ribofl
avin
46%
56%
Thiamine
(c)
10-12%
13-16%
Four 8-ounce glasses of milk supply approximately the following percentages for teen-agers and younger children:
Teen-agers
BOYS 13-15 YEARS
(lOe lbs., 64 inches)
Calories
(a)
21%
Protein
42%
Calcium
81%
Vitamin A
31%
Vitamin D
(b)
100%
Riboflavin
80%
Thiamine
(c)
20%
BOYS 16-19 YEARS
(139 Ibi., 69 inches)
18%
36%
81%
31%
100%
67%
18%
GIRLS 13-15 YEARS
(108 lbs., 63 inches)
25%
45%
87%
31%
100%
84%
24%
GIRLS 16-19 YEARS
(120 lb>., 64 inches)
28%
48%
87%
31%
100%
88%
26%
Notes: (a) Calorie allowances vary with age and activity. These are based on needs of people with moderate physical activity. The percentage
would be higher for office workers and other sedentary people, (b) There ore no recommendations for Vitamin D in the diet of odults, but for
children and teen-agers the recommendation is 400 International Units. Four glasses of milk (or one quart) meets this recommendation only if
the milk has Vitamin D added, (c) The recommended daily allowance of thiamine decreases with increasing age, being, for example, 1.6
milligrams for a 25 year old man and 1.3 milligrams for a 65 year old man.
Other recommended daily dietary allowances, for which milk is not considered a good source, are iron, niacin, and ascorbic acid. These may
be obtained from other foods. By eating a well balanced diet which includes at least two glasses of milk for adults and three to four glosses
for children and teen-agers, a major step toward good health is made.
Percentages of nutrient allowances for milk used in this table have been taken from calculations made by the Institute of Home Economics of the
U. S. Department of Agriculture.
determining one's state of physical development. As-
suming that a person is born with no major physical
handicaps, then maintaining good general health and
avoiding illness become part of a lifetime pattern that
really is not too difficult to design and follow.
Food consumption becomes a very important part
of the lives of people in all types of civilizations. Food
is eaten not only for its contribution to the physical
needs of the eater but also because of many cultural
values associated with the act of eating. In American
society food often serves the homemaker as the main
source of her gratification, through earning the praise
of her family and her guests for what she has placed
on the table. Food serves as a reason for people to
meet and carry on many .social activities, ranging from
major business deals to the exchanging of meaningful
glances between young lovers.
Eating food certainly should be an enjoyable part
of living in a country where we have not only an
abundance of very high quality foods but also a tre-
mendous variety of excellent and tasty foods that
provide, if eaten in the right proportions, all of the
essential nutrients wc need to maintain good health
and adequate energy .sources.
We should all strive to help children learn to eat
food basically to provide themselves the essential nu-
trients they need for good health and adequate sup-
plies of energy to do all those things that children
enjoy doing. While such training for our children cer-
tainly should be a primary national goal in developing
sound physical fitness programs, we should not be at
all hesitant about trying to re-educate many of our
teenagers and adults to better eating habits. In spite
of our plentiful food supply, there are millions of
people in this country who are malnourished — not
necessarily undernourished — becau.se they have not
learned how to select the right foods to provide a
healthy nutritional pattern for eating.
EATING FOR FITNESS
Nutrition scientists in this country, trying to de-
velop the best pattern of food consumption in line
with the kinds of foods available, have offered a re-
latively simple Daily Food Guide for us to follow. The
Guide suggests selecting foods from four major groups:
The Milk Group (including cheese and ice cream c.3
well as all forms of milk): An adult should consume
two or more eight-ounce gla.sscs of milk each clay.
A Public Interest Advertisement Addressed Especially to the Readers of Harper s
The Vegetable-Fruit Group: Select four or more serv-
ings each day, including one serving of a good source
of Vitamin C, one serving at least every other day of a
good source of Vitamin A. The other servings may be
any vegetables or fruits.
The Meat Group (including all meats, poultry, fish
and eggs) : Choose two or more servings each day.
The Bread-Cereals Group: Choose four or more serv-
ings daily.
Other Foods: After meeting the suggested servings
from these four basic food groups, the Guide recom-
mends selecting from other food sources adequate
amounts to provide enough energy to meet daily re-
quirements. The amount of food consumed, in terms
of calories, must be balanced with the amount of en-
ergy expended. There will be a gain in weight if food
intake exceeds energy output.
It is very wise, also, to keep in mind that foods
should never be selected merely on the basis of the
numl)cr of calories in any particular unit of food. For
example, we dairy farmers would be especially grate-
ful if more people would remember why milk has been
called, "Nature's most nearly perfect food," since the
dawn of civilization. The chart shows that milk pro-
vides a wide range of essential food nutrients, for
people of all ages. Milk can hardly be classified as a
"fattening" food on the basis of its nutrient contribu-
tion to the total diet. A pint of milk, or two eight-
ounce glasses, supplies only 10% to 13% of an adult
man's calorie needs, but this amount of milk, as the
chart indicates, also provides 25% of the recom-
mended amount of protein — and the highest quality
protein available, 71% of the calcium, 15% of the
Vitamin A, 46% of the riboflavin and 10% to 12%
of the thiamine. There are other essential food
nutrients in milk but in less important quantities.
REST AND EXERCISE ARE NECESSARY
Good general health, prevention of illness and a
well balanced diet are all necessary for physical fitness,
but they are by no means the total picture. Just as
pills are not the answer to all our problems, neither is
it possible to "eat your way to good health," as some
of the food faddists and quacks proclaim. Adequate
amounts of rest are necessary if the body is to recoup
itself and to function effectively. The amount of rest
any of us needs is something that experience alone
teaches, but rest is essential.
Finally, among the physical requirements for phys-
ical fitness — and we should not overlook the interrela-
tionship among physical, mental and moral, or spir-
itual factors in contributing to good health and
happiness — we come to the matter of physical activity
or exercise.
The required activity need not be violent exercise,
but it should, if at all possible, certainly be daily
exercise. Walking at least three miles each day, oxer
and alcove the usual amount of walking on the jolj, is
one of the easiest and best ways to get needed physical
activity because walking does use the major body
muscles. There certainly are many other forms of exer-
cise that help if they can be done on a fairly regular
basis, not merely on weekends — including bicycling,
golf, tennis, handball, swimming, bowling, etc. Even
a football or l:)asketball game can provide the right
kind of exercise, provided the participants walk to
the stadium or fieldhouse instead of riding in the car.
All of us, for patriotic, for economic, for purely
selfish reasons, would be wise to inventory our own
state of physical fitness and to resolve to achieve a high
level of well-being if we don't already enjoy it. Beyond
this, all of us certainly owe it to our communities and
to our nation's future to give much more than lip
service to President Kennedy and those he has desig-
nated to develop better and sensible physical fitness
programs.
Every school child should certainly be getting en-
couragement and training to develop a personal, life-
time physical fitness plan. This should include knowl-
edge about eating a well balanced diet, the need for
adequate rest and encouragement of the kind of
physical activity that could easily become a perma-
nent and enjoyable part of the adult living pattern.
Gymnasiums and stadiums for spectator sports are
hardly enough to fulfill our obligations to our children
in this area of physical fitness. In fact, having these
facilities may often mislead us badly about how many
of our children really are getting adequate physical
training in our schools.
Above all else, we should avoid the idea that physi-
cal fitness is something of concern only to the young of
our species. It is most certainly a cradle-to-grave need
for all of us, one that properly planned and developed,
can provide some big bonuses in longer life and more
years of useful, energetic and enjoyable life.
aiTLerican dairy association
Voice of the Dairy Farmers in tfie Marl<et Places of America
20 North Wacker Drive • Chicago 6, III.
LaLel merely says IMPORTED?
Please remember tnis aavice:
Just tne fact it was exported
Doesn't maKe it extra-nice!
When you buy clothes, for extra-rfice
fabrics look for the label that says
fahnti Forever in Fashion
6 East 45th Street, New York 17, New York
3 Q^^QA/SQ^<Q(SA»^IS^^QA)^eAa^QAa^e/^^Q/^^Q/^^G
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a finest fruit cake, or your money hack.
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I p. 0. Box 461A, Corsicana, Texas
•^ s*^ e^*^ e^^ e^^ e^^ fi/*^ s.*^ e.*^ ©.^^ Q/%^ ©.*«
AFTER HOURS
CAR FOR SALE hy J. A. Maxtone Graham
Mr. Maxtone Graham is a farmer in
Scotland. In 1960 he was awarded a
Nuffield traveling scholarship to study
beef cattle in the U. S. and Canada for
six months. His mother tvas the late
Jan Struther, the English author of
"Mrs. Miniver," who lived here for
several years.
I. H A V E , in my life, owned eight
cars, seven in Scotland and one in
the States. I was given the first, and
have at the moment two, so it ap-
pears that I have bought seven and
sold six. I have had these figures
checked by a competent accountant
and he agrees with my deductions.
The first five sales gave me no
trouble at all, because I was always
buying a new model. Our Mr. Mc-
Murray, like all British garage pro-
prietors, is bound to sell new cars at
a fixed price. He is therefore de-
lighted to quote an unrealistic trade-
in value in order to get his large
commission on the new sale. The
affair is over in five minutes. He
does not prowl around looking for
rust, or test the compression. He
knows that farmers' cars are rusty
and that I haven't had a new engine
in 30,000 miles. He offers me cost
price, less about £50 a year. I take it
like a shot.
It was less easy in America. I had
'" " •vcl 1. 5,000 miles looking at
farms, so a car was essential. It was
bought without difficulty for .?900
("a special bargain on account bf
George Washington's birthday")
from a charming, smiling, friendly
dealer in Virginia who assured me
that I would get the same courteous
service and the best possible price
when I sold it back to him. I ought
to have known.
I ought to have listened to a friend
in North Carolina. He said to me:
"Whatever promises you have had,
and wherever you go, if you've got
an old car to sell, you've got a
ree-ee-al problem." Unbelieving, I
rejected a local offer of |550 without
a second thought.
I drove to Virginia in August, tAvo
.days before the Britannic was to sail
for Liverpool, so I had plenty of
time to sell, get a bus to New York,
and buy presents for my family. Still
full of confidence in Virginian
straight dealing, I started to describe
to the boss-man how I had loved and
looked after this machine, how I had
even had it washed and had the oil
changed every 1,500 miles. I pointed
out the new tires, the beauty of the
new fuel and water pumps, and of
the fairly new radiator which one of
the Grand Canyon deer had neces-
sitated. At this he showed his first
spark of interest, opened the hood,
and said: "See you got a bent frame,
too." I told him what a good, re-
liable, trouble-free car it had been.
|i
NOT ONE COPY OF THIS FAMOUS DESK HAS THE ATTACHE CASE BIN. This is the original
L-shaped desk, Herman Miller created it for an executive who complained he hadn't seen his
desk in weeks because it was so cluttered with urgent material. Herman Miller a'Med a good
working arm to the desk to free it— and that's how fashion is born. Suddenly, everybody had to
have an arm on his desk. Today, the L-shaped desk is classic.
The arm on the Herman Miller desk has a few tricks up its sleeve, however, ft is designed to
allow you to [nvent its storage content. You can have 3 sections of shelves or utility trays or
files or dictaphone slides— or any assortment you like. It also conceals your waste paper basket.
And it has a bin for attache cases.
Some think it isn't monumental enough. But many executives prefer its contemporary, unpre-
tentious elegance. If you ,do, you can have the desk in great, oiled walnut for about $670,
Herman Miller will tell you where to find it. Write: Herman Miiler, Zeefand, Michigan, Dept. HPN.
Or send $5 and get the new Herman Miller catalogue and a tot of other temptations.
u
zn
SHAGGY
DOG*
"/. PRESS Reg. TM
SHAGGY DOG®
PULLOVERS
Finest Shetland Island
wool, hand-frame knit-
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Sizes 34 thru 46 for
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colors $14.50
Black/Blue,
Gray Natural,
Navy, Light Natural,
Gorse, Brown Heather,
Dark Gorse, Green Lovat
SHAGGY DOG®
CABLE STITCH
PULLOVERS
Hand-framed crew neck
pullovers, entirely ca-
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finest Real Shetland soft
brushed wool $18.50
Dark Gorse
Light Natural
Broivn Heather
CURREIST
Atlanta
Dinkler-Plaza Hotel
November 6th & 7th
Cincinnati
Netherland-Hilton Hotel
November 8th & 9th
Dallas
Adoljihus Hotel
November 13th & 14th
Dayton
Van Cleve Hotel
November 6th & 7th
REAL
SHET LANDS
SHAGGY DOG®
FAIR ISLE
LADIES' KNITS
Soft brushed band knit-
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trimmed with Fair Isle
designs, sizes 34 thru 42.
Pearl — Azure — Gorse
— Oatmeal — Tarnish
Pullover with buttoning
at back-neck SI 6.50
Cardigan style with 8-
button front SI 9.50
SHAGGY DOG®
CABLE STITCH
LADIES' CARDIGANS
Beautiful soft lofted
Real Shetland wools all-
over cable stitch knit-
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Light Natural Gorse
Mid Blue Mixture
Please Direct Mail Or-
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York St., New Haven,
Conn. Add 60c for mail-
ing. Color Illustrated Bro-
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EXHIBITS
Kansas City
Muehlebach Hotel
November 8th & 9th
New Orleans
Roosevelt Hotel
November 9th & 10th
St. Louis
Bel Air Motel
November 10th & 11th
Exhibit Dates For 31
Other Cities On Request.
262 York St. New Haven .
82 Mt. Auburn St. Cambridge
341 Madison Ave. New York*
.Coast to Coast Travel Exhibits '
a gift of Chartreuse
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16^05
AFTER HOURS
He looked sad. The smiles and
cheerful quips of February had gone. J
I thought at first that he must have^
suffered some ghastly family tragedy.f
That wasn't it, though. The terribleTJ
thing was that '55s were just about
unsalable right now. If it had been a
'56 . . . There wasn't space to put
it. anyway . . . He did a series of
calculations, most of them subtrac-
tion. He said: "The best I can do
is ,S.875."
We strolled round the lot. "Look,"
I lold him, "here is the same car as
mine. It is a vear older. You have
to shift gears. There is a cigarette,
burn in the seat and the tires are sh(
to hell. Yet vou are asking S850 foj
it."
"How did you know?" I explainec
that his salesman had carelessly re^
\ealed the marking code to me.
At this point, he seemed to lose
interest in the deal. I reasonedj
using words and figures. I told hii
hoAv I had refused .S550 in Nortl
Carolina. He told me to go bad
(here. T told him that he was not
gi\ing me the fair deal which he hac
j)romised. He said I was griping. Il
knew enough .American to under-]
stand that, so I told him his outfit!
^\as a crummv joint, and drove in aj
lurv to NcAv York.
^' O l^ don't need to know much
about America to have heard that
Broadway is the place. The Yellow
Pages confirmed it. Surely, among
this large selection of A-1 Auto Deal-
ers, there must be one fair-minded
Caledoniphile -^vho would give me a
square (or should it be over-square?)
deal.
If there was. I couldn't find him.
Broadway runs as far as Albany (one
of the interesting but useless bits of
American lore passed on to me bv niv
mother, like the origin of "two bits"
or that the Tlingit Indians Fash-
ioned Rude Fishhooks Out Of Wal-
rus Bones) but I concentrated my
efforts on a hiuidred blocks or so up
from Columbus Circle, where there
was at least a chance of being able to
park. I went to a place where T had
looked at cars six months be I ore.
The man who had been so interested
in my wants and problems in Febru-
ary had clearly been through a dilfi-
cult time. He looked very si(k.
His face was covered with Avrinkled
leather instead of skin. He was ap-
AFTER HOURS
tly cTij)|)led by some terrible
ysis, lor lie was unable to ,^ei
om his desk. Even to tinn his
and look through the plate-
\\indows at the sitlewalk was
bsiderable effort. He (roaked:
y are worth two hundred."
hile I drove to two other places,
tspect he (ailed them up and
ed them I was (oming. He liad
lers at both ol them. The family
iblance and the same inherited
ses were uimiistakable.
went back to my sieplather's
tment. There the super corn-
rated with me. 11 only it had
two weeks earlier, lor he had
looking lor something . . . just
mine . . . had paid |650.
ailed up C-unard. It would cost
Yes, there would be import
at Liverpool. Yes, there would
urchase tax.
as at home is 70 cents an Im-
lal gallon. In any case a Chevro-
Ivould be loo wide lor my garage.
y stepfather got home at six.
y hours to go. He was sympa-
ic, but for the first time |)laved
heavy stepparent. He (riti(i/ed
dress. If I wanted to sell this
hine, I must make an Impres-
. I must put on a tie, and some
n pants, and a jacket. The heat
in the nineties, and the j^rospect
appalling. Next morning, I put
ny heavy Scotch tweeds and drove
Jick's. Ni(k is to my stepfather
It Mr. McMurray is to me at
lie. He was full of ideas. First he
me to Mr. Weinburger, a kosher
(her on Amsterdam. Mr. AV'ein-
ger had bought a car the ^v'eek be-
? and was now in Maine with it.
hen to trace a couple of guys on
h or was it 68th, one (or two?)
rks from the Park, who were ask-
about just such a car only a few
s before. I never found them.
Then to the son-in-law of Nick's
hanic, who ran Angel's Auto Re-
r four blocks away. Angel didn't
i a buyer, but he did find a leak
the transmission oil, which I knew
ut, and a throbbing in the diflFer-
tial, which I didn't. Between visits
/as going back to Nick's to report.
; stopped a couple of policemen,
ch had a friend who was looking
a car just like mine, but one was
vacation and the other was
)ught to have found what he
nted the day before.
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o
AFTER HOURS
By now it was 11:30, and tb
sailed at ten the next morning,
the car with Nick and went"
shopping. I visited a literary
on Madison Avenue and tried t
her two short stories and my car.
go. I then signed a declaration
484 Lexington that I had had hq
come while in the States. I too
cab back to the apartment, had a >
of beer, changed into my old wl
pants and an open shirt, wall
round to Nick's, and sold the
within five minutes.
In the morning I had asked A:
for .^SOO. During the afternoon
Pereja chanced along, and
bought it, sight unseen, for
Angel and Nick were to shan
surplus $100. So Nick called'
Angel and Angel called up El
Eloy rode down on a bicycle, a
was to bring the money with n
Nick and Eloy and I sat in Ni|
dusty office. I started to write out!
transfer, and filled in Eloy's na
and address. Then the price. At i
point Eloy swore that he had ne
offered S400, only $350. So N
called Angel and Angel was o
Deadlock. Eloy said he wanted
take his bicycle home; he balancec
in the trunk of the car, and motior
to me to go with him. He dro
The journey was without incide
except that the bicycle fell out
Broadway.
.1
'isl
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made by Maurice Bertauche
0 N arrival at Eloy's shoe-rep
store, a tremendous crowd of Cub<| '
gathered round to see the car. I wa
little critical of Eloy's propriet'
attitude toward it, considering t
hitch in the arrangements, but t'
was my last chance to avoid crawli
back to my Broadway contacts, pn
ably to find that the market 1
Chevrolets had slumped in the 1;
few hours, so I said not a word.
An elderly Cuban, a compL
stranger to me, then took the whe
and we drove to Angel's. He was
enthusiastic but unskilled driver, b
1 forgave him because he was t
first person in these dark days w
had said anything at all comf
mentary about my beautiful c
"Some brakes," he would say, as
dozen or so cars applied theirs ha
behind us. "She really have soi
wo-o-o-ni])." (He turned round
make a two-fisted gesture to Eloy
the back, and did not see the sc
rt'
31
AFTER HOURS
covey of pedestrians who had
ed that to cross Amsterdam on
n light was safe enough.) I had
sweating all day, and for the
me it was neither the heat nor
amidity.
jjel was there, tinkering with a
e-parked Oldsmobile. We
-parked. There was a long dis-
n in Spanish which I didn't
stand, but it seemed amicable
;h. Eloy look me aside, and
hat Angel had agreed to forgo
100, and that he, Eloy, was to
le just the three.
k had impounded the owncr-
:ertiricate; we went ba(k to his
(I was allowed to drive this
I asked Ni(k for the certifi-
and told him of the present
gement. He didn't believe a
of it. He called Angel to con-
and he was dead right: Angel
aid no such thing. Nick was
, and muttered about foreigners
ne, the Cubans). So he told me
ishcd his hands of the matter,
mc back the certificate, and
d his hands as if to say: "What
oil expect?"
ck at the car, I expected to close
eal but it turned out that Eloy
not, after all, brought the
!y; he drove me back to the shoe
By this time it was 5:45 and
:epfather was due back at 6:15.
I the key.
)y casually asked "me for the cer-
te. He stretched out his hand.
ook hold of a corner. I with-
it, and used, for the first time, a
e I had always wanted to try.
irst, let me see the color of your
y-"
was green, and greasy, and
ly in fives. At six o'clock the
action was completed, although
certificate was never notarized,
suppose the car still belongs to
Eloy, brave man, was planning
irt driving to Key West the next
Somewhere between New York
Havana is a Chev. Belair, '55,
, radio and heater, good cond,
ed in Scotland, registered in
inia, driven by Elo^'. Anyone
sees it is asked to give it a pat
he back from me. It did me
told my stepfather the whole
^ I said 1 had had a hell of a
)h, no," he replied. "Just a
cal New York day."
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MAGA
HOW TO DESTROY
THE CHURCHES
EDMOND CAHN
The clergymen who are trying to break
down our traditional wall between
church and state may — without knowing it
— prove to be religion s worst enemies.
SEPARATION of church and state in
recent months has become an uncomfortably
timely issue. There are controversies about Bible-
reading, prayers, and Christmas observances in
public schools; about Sunday closing ordinances
and state laws that penalize atheism in one
manner or another. The latest storm has raged
around the question of federal loans or grants to
schools under ecclesiastical control.
Whenever public discussion turns to such sub-
jects, it is fashionable to stress the moral defects
of the state, the politicians, and the voters and
unfashionable to tell home truths about the
church, the clergy, and their congregations.
Democracy has rightly taught us to be tolerant
and mindful of the sensibilities of our neighbors
of other faiths. We have learned the lesson so
well that many of us, including our movie-
makers, no longer feel free to say "Elmer Gantry"
when we meet an ecclesiastical charlatan.
If you describe or even exaggerate the imper-
fections of democratic government you will com-
mand respect. But mention a few obvious facts
about the behavior of the church (or the syna-
gogue, which I mean always to include) and in
certain circles you will be branded an enemy of
religion, a bigot, and perhaps a crypto-Commu-
nist. By these means, the state is made to appear
irredeemably corrupt, while an uncritical silence
cloaks the church in righteousness, sagacity, and
idealism. Thus it would seem to follow that the
church, which abounds in virtue, should utilize
if not direct the state, which is amoral. With the
logic of the matter so badly askew, no wonder
that separation of church and state is misunder-
stood and in jeopardy.
Those of us who believe in organized religion
have a duty to restore the equilibrium of truth.
We are the ones who comprehend the church
from within. In stating the truth, we can confine
our comments to the all-too-human attributes of
all churches. Then no one need feel that his
denomination has been singled out for criticism.
What are the simple facts? Not about creeds,
dogmas, and theological beliefs, which, however
bizarre or irrational, are matters of private con-
science, but about the extent of righteousness,
wisdom, and altruism inside the churches. What
shall we say of them?
Now, perhaps the specific congregation or par-
ish to v/hich you belong is very close to perfect;
34
HOW TO DESTROY THE CHURCHES
all gifts for its support are made anonymously,
and the donors, in order to enjoy the full beauty
of religious sacrifice, do not deduct their con-
tributions for tax purposes. Your own clergyman
may be a saintly man who spurns rich people
and prefers the poor; he is so pure in fact that
the most vicious malefactors, coming within his
aura, tearfully assign a reasonable percentage of
their net gains, both past and future, to holy
causes. The ladies of your congregation are
ascetically indifferent to clothes, material posses-
sions, and social status; they steadfastly decline
to gossip. The children in your religious school
are all dainty little pre-Freudian disseminators of
sweetness and light. All this we can grant. But
what of the other congregations and parishes in
your denomination, and what of all the other
denominations?
Looking back at the role of the churches in
relation to the great ethical issues in our time,
one must confess that, with a few commendable
and even heroic exceptions, the clergy have failed
to furnish the nation with moral leadership.
Most churches have lagged behind the moral
progress of secular law and many of them have
not yet begun to close the gap. On the question
of racial equality, for example, the Supreme
Court has moved far ahead of organized religion.
On that of free speech and association, we find
that the ugly disease of McCarthyism, which still
infects our democracy, has met more principled
and courageous opposition among the jurists
than among the clergy. It is true that in resisting
McCarthyism the Supreme Court has been firm
in some respects, weak in others. The judges
needed— and generally lacked— the support of
libertarian voices in the major pulpits of the
country. Nor can we blame radio or television
for the reduced importance of weekly sermons
in American life. The new media could provide
unprecedented new opportunities. But the pulpit
itself has diminished in virile courage, spiritual
profundity, and prophetic vision.
Almost every day clergymen appear and testify
before state commissions, local school boards.
Edmond Cahn, professor of law at New York
University, adapted his article from the North Lec-
ture which he gave recently at Franklin and Marshall
College. Born in New Orleans, he practiced law in
New York City from 1927 to 1950. His latest book
is "The Predicament of Democratic Man," published
by Macmillan this fall. He has been guest lecturer at
Hebrew V niver.sily in Jermalem and has won the
Phillips Prize in Jurisprudence of the American
Philosophic Society.
Congressional committees, and other official
bodies. Their views as presumably informed and
responsible civic leaders are entitled to respectful
and serious consideration. But this is not true of
the pretense that some of them make of con-
trolling the votes of the laymen of their de-
nomination; indeed this pretension and the
promises or threats that may accompany it
should be dismissed as presumptuous, undemo-
cratic, and factually false.
There once was a time when ecclesiastical
politicians could direct large blocs of votes,
dispensing plums to their political friends and
punishments to their opponents. Even today
there are a few areas of the country where
ignorance and political illiteracy still permit this
sort of abuse. But it is a rarity, and a fading one.
Presidents, governors, and legislators have in
fact discovered that they need not tremble when
political clergymen scowl menacingly. Experience
has taught most public officials what we may
call the Law of Inverse Pretension. According
to this principle, the less a clergyman happens to
know about his communicants' or congregants'
views on any given subject, the safer he will feel
in pretending to declare them.
Many of us recall the lurid years of National
Prohibition when Bishop James Cannon, a Meth-
odist, was able to terrorize Congressmen by
threatening disaster at the polls if they did not
vote as he demanded. Eventually they discovered
that the Bishop's threat was thunder without
lightning. Similarly, the Catholic bishops of
Puerto Rico last year called on their faithful to
defeat Governor Muiioz-Marin. Despite Puerto
Rico's high ratio of Catholic voters, Muiioz-
Marin prevailed by a wide margin. (Bishop
Cannon had one advantage over the Puerto
Rican prelates. Being a Methodist bishop, he
could at least deliver his wife's vote.)
Jefferson's law
AGGRESSIVE clerics present their case
in terms of a choice between "God and
Caesar," implying that a decision against their
claims would be tantamount to a decision against
God. This is completely fallacious. Our Ameri-
can principle of separation gives the true picture.
It designates the separated entities not as "God
and Caesar" but as "church and state." A free
government is never so bad as Caesar and a
church administered by mortal men is never so
good as God.
The Founding Fathers, particularly Thomas
Jefferson and James Madison, defined two
BY EDMOND CAHN
35
distinct aspects of the American doctrine
of separation: one negative and legal, the
other positive and religions. They formalized
the legal aspect through the First Amendment,
which not only guaranteed the "free exercise"
of religion but also prescribed that government
"shall make no law respecting an establishment
of religion." What does the latter j^rovision mean
today? Speaking for the United States Supreme
Court, Justice Hugo L. Black answered in the
following celebrated passage:
It "means at least this: Neither a state nor the
federal government can set up a church. Neither
can pass laws which aid one religion, aid all
religions, or prefer one religion over another.
Neither can force nor influence a person to go
to or to remain away from church against his will
or force him to profess a belief or disbelief in
any religion. No person can be punished for
entertaining or professing religious beliefs or dis-
beliefs, for church attendance or nonattendance.
No tax in any amount, large or small, can be
levied to support any religious activities or in-
stitutions, whatever they may be called, or what-
ever form they may adopt to teach or practice
religion. Neither a state nor the federal govern-
ment can, openly or secretly, participate in the
affairs of any religious organizations or groups
and vice versa. In the words of Jefferson, the
clause against establishment of religion by law
was intended to erect 'a wall of separation be-
tween church and state.' "
This much, at least, is what separation means
in terms of constitutional law. However, the
law of the subject utters only prohibitions. In
effect, it directs the government to attend to its
own affairs and avoid intruding into the realm
of religion.
Outside the margin of the law, however, one
finds a wholly different aspect of the matter,
that is, the positive or religious side. According
to the American tradition, churches separated
from the state are a religious necessity. We hold
it self-evident that as long as a church speaks
God's message and exemplifies God's way, it can
lequire no assistance from the political power.
If, then, the church seeks political help, it demon-
strates to that extent that it deserves none.
To the believing church member, the separa-
tion of church and state is more than a barrier
erected to restrain arrogant clergymen. It is also
a solemn affirmation of confidence and pride
in the independence of his church. The firm
trust which our ancestors declared in the self-
sustaining efficacy of the church was the proudest
philosophy religion had ever evoked in a political
society. It was a radically new idea not borrowed
from England, which maintained an established
church.
The new American nation embraced this new
concept not only because its founders desired
freedom of worship, not only because they de-
tested the meannesses and dreaded the hostilities
of sectarian conflict but— above all else— because
they believed with complete fervor that religion,
as Madison said, "flourishes in greater purity
without than with the aid of government."
EXPERT IN DEMOLITION
COMING now to the current scene, I
must ask you to help me by imagining—
for only a few pages— a condition of affairs that
is entirely fictitious, namely: //, for whatever rea-
son, you and I were determined to destroy or-
ganized religion in the United States of America,
how would we go about it? Our hypothesis is
that instead of feeling devoted to our respective
churches we are so bitterly hostile to them that
we are resolved to extirpate them from American
life. Precisely how would we proceed? In seeking
an answer let us invite Mephistopheles to join
us, and see what advice he would give.
He would, I believe, begin by reminding us
that Americans have a curious emotional attitude
toward their churches. No matter how irregu-
larly they attend them, no matter how inade-
quately they support them, no matter how rarely
they heed them, nevertheless at the very first sign
of a frontal attack, they rally stanchly to the
churches' defense. Mephistopheles insists there-
fore that the demolition be planned along de-
vious and oblique lines. He recommends starting
modestly: by persuading the Congress and the
people that, to preserve the separation of church
and state, they need only refer all controversies
on the subject to the United States Supreme
Court. The notion sounds respectable; it has the
added attraction of relieving everyone except
the judges of the unpleasant duty of thinking.
Send it to the judges and forget it!
Of course, Mephistopheles, being wcll-verscd
in the decisions of the Supreme Court, knows
that, imder certain old precedents, the judges
may flatly decline to rule on some of the most
important chiuxh-and-state issues. This is be-
cause the Court— to avoid interfering with func-
tions that the Constitution confides to other
branches of government— will not consider an
issue of constiiutionality unless the party ap-
pearing before it has sustained or is in immediate
danger of direct injury from the law he seeks to
36
HOW TO DESTROY THE CHURCHES
chajlenge. No matter how dubious the measure
may be, he will not be permitted to attack it if
he merely suffers from it in some indefinite way
in common with everyone else.
Back in 1923, the Court went further and held
that the mere fact that a person could show he
paid federal taxes made no difference in this
respect and gave him no standing to challenge
an act of Congress appropriating public funds.
The Court recognized that an unconstitutional
spending of public money might conceivably
necessitate a rise in subsequent tax levies. Never-
theless it held that the causal connection between
any specific expenditure and future tax rates
would be too remote and uncertain to constitute
an immediate personal injury to a taxpayer.
Hence he would have no more to complain about
than others.
NOBODY VS. EVERYBODY
RULINGS of this kind, designed to keep
peace among the departments of govern-
ment, are eminently sensible as over-all policies.
Yet they also provide a way to immunize a bad
law from attack in the courts: one need only
frame the law in such a way as to violate the
basic rights of nobody in particular but every-
body in general, that is, of the entire American
people. Then, since no one can point to an
injury that is distinguishable from his neighbors',
no one can come into court and challenge the
legislation!
For example, if the Congress were to appropri-
ate a billion dollars for direct grants to schools
under ecclesiastical direction, some of the judges
would decline to entertain the question of con-
stitutionality; they would hold that no citizen
or taxpayer could challenge the appropriation
in court. Some of them would take the same
position even though the very statute which
appropriated the money required the Attorney
General to obtain a ruling from the Supreme
Court before the money was distributed.
Nevertheless, Mcphistopheles has had too rich
an experience with lawyers to depend entirely
on any technicality of law, even one that appeals
to his taste as much as this one. He knows that
what one lawyer may knit, another lawyer may
find a way to unravel. Though Mephistopheles
relishes the fictions and refinements of the law,
he has found that too often truth and common
sense have a way of breaking through. And they
may do it again. In the case of direct federal
grants to rhurch schools, he suspects that a pro-
cedure will be developed that would induce the
1
Court to decide the question of constitutionality.
He hopes of course that in that event, the
majority of the judges would uphold the validity
of the grant to church schools. But he does not
care very much how any particular case comes
out. For his purpose in this initial stage does
not relate to the courts. It is rather to accustom
the American people to regard church-and-state
relationships as strictly legal and political issues,
fit for judges and lawyers to wrangle about, too
esoteric and technical for other citizens to com-
prehend. If he can only get the people used to
considering separation of church and state in
terms of qualifications, conditions, reasonable
adjustments, and practical exceptions, Mephis-
topheles can rejoice. Aware that Thomas Jeffer-
son solemnly dubbed it a "wall of separation,"
he hopes that the people will become accustomed
to seeing a few exceptions here and there, a few
doors or gaps in the wall. How can one hope to
erode an obviously beneficial rule if one is not
permitted to introduce exceptions?
Heretofore, when called on to maintain the
wall of separation, the Court has made a rather
mediocre record, failing more often than it suc-
ceeded. If Mephistopheles can convince the
judges that the American people care so little
about the solidity of the wall that they are will-
ing to leave its fate to any five justices who hap-
pen to compose the Court majority of the day,
the wall will soon crumble away. The first
destructive step is to teach the people that sepa-
ration of church and state is not their affair but
the Court's.
The second stage follows. It consists in per-
suading church members that the cost of main-
taining their own sectarian institutions has
become too onerous for them. Here Mephis-
topheles has a powerful ally in human selfishness
and cupidity, not to mention the joy we all take
in feeling sorry for ourselves. Self-pity is the
occupational disease of modern man. Anyone
who appeals to it is certain of a receptive hearing.
In the past, when most church members were
much less prosperous than they are today, they
discovered a special pride and religious exalta-
tion in contributing to the construction and
maintenance of churches, missions, funds for the
sick and poor, and other religious causes. Granted
that some of the donors were actuated by an
unworthy expectation that they could, as it were,
bribe their way into heaven; there were plenty
of others who gave for the sake of social con-
science. In fact, according to our view of things,
some gave too much to ecclesiastical uses. At
any rale, every section of the United States is
BY EDMOND CAHN
37
studded with imposing cathedrals, churches,
synagogues, seminaries, monasteries, nunneries,
institutes, and clerically directed universities,
which would have been impossible if millions
of Americans in every generation had not at-
tested their faith by donating billions of dollars.
In the face of such conspicuous proof that
every church can take care of its own and that
its own can take care of every church, it would
seem hard to picture the church schools and uni-
versities nowadays as victims of abject poverty.
Yet Mephistopheles finds it rather easy. True, the
communicants may be more prosperous than ever
before in history, secure and sleek and obese;
but think of the cost of keeping two cars these
days. Consider the income taxes one must pay,
even at the popidar caj)ital-gains rates. Mephis-
topheles fairly weeps as he recoinits how inflation
has increased the cost of scientific equipment for
the church schools. Of course, he finds no need
to mention how infiation has increased the gifts
and contributions, the income from the churches'
real estate, securities, and bingo games, and the
schools' fees. It is easy to convince men that they
cannot afford to pay what they do not desire to
|)ay; tell them how heavy their burdens are and
I hey will greet your every word as a sagacious
understatement.
ONE PAINLESS CONDITION
NOW for the third stage, the decisive one.
Here Mephistopheles can use his favorite
instruments of destruction, those most ancient
and efficacious temptations— power and money.
Power and money can work like salt water on a
shipwrecked mariner— the more he takes, the
more he requires, till death alone can slake his
tliirst. If you want to kill him, you need only
persuade him to swallow the first draught.
That is why Mephistopheles would be elated
to see us bloat the churches with political power
and gorge them with public grants. He under-
stands that— unlike the church in the Middle
Ages— the modern church can no longer use the
state as it chooses; on the contrary today when
the two play the game of power and money, it
is the state that ultimately calls the tune and
makes use of the church.
Grant the churches all the political influence
they desire, he urges— only make sure to attach
a single, entirely plausible condition to its exer-
cise. Give them their way; enact into law
any regulation, no matter how censorious or
repressive, which the loudest clerical voices in
the community may demand— only require them
first to lay their hands on their hearts and
solemnly aver that the regulation has nothing
to do with religion but is merely an ordinance
for social welfare, community comfort, or ad-
ministrative convenience. You will be amazed
to see how readily some of the clergy will suc-
cumb to this stratagem. In f)rder to impose their
own sectarian ways on the remainder of the
population, certain clergymen— speaking either
for themselves or through state officials who
share their views— seem willing to erase all lines
between sacred and profane, and to demote the
most precious inheritances of faith to the plane
of mere secular arrangements. Some of these
clergymen are the very ones we hear continually
denouncing the trend toward secularism; yet
when they see a chance to wield political power,
they enter the front ranks of the secularizers.
One example will suffice. Thirty-four of our
fifty states have general laws prohibiting business,
gainful work, and commerce on Sunday. Twenty-
one of these states are considerate enough to
provide exemptions for persons like Seventh
Dav Adventists and Orthodox Jews who in good
faith observe a difi^erent day as the Sabbath. The
Pennsylvania law which makes Sunday work a
criminal offense allows no exemptions for such
persons, no matter how devout they may be.
A few months ago, the United States Supreme
Court held that it was constitutional for Pennsyl-
vania to prosecute some Orthodox Jewish mer-
chants who opened their shops on Sunday. They
claimed they could not remain in business if
they were permitted to work only five days a
w^eek. No one questioned their religious sincerity.
(The factor of sincerity is important because in
other debates about Sunday closing laws nothing
more sacred has been at stake than commercial
rivalry between urban merchants and highway
merchants.) The Supreme Court offered them no
comfort. It told them that under Pennsylvania
law they must either suffer the inevitable losses
or find "some other commercial activity which
does not call for either Saturday or Sunday
labor." Justices Douglas, Brennan, and Stewart
dissented indignantly.
AV'hy did the majority uphold the Pennsylvania
statute (and similar ones in Massachusetts and
Maryland) in the face of the First Amendment?
Because the Attorney General of the state insisted
that Sunday laws were not connected with the
Christian Sabbath but were mere secular pro-
visions for rest, relaxation, and recreation. True,
he had to concede, the laws were originally en-
acted for religious purposes; true, as they stood
on the statute books, they were still couched in
38
HOW TO DESTROY THE CHURCHES
religious phrases, referring to Sunday as "the
Lord's day" and to commerce as "worldly em-
ployment"; true, the Supreme Court of Pennsyl-
vania had recently declared that "Sunday is the
holy day among Christians"; nevertheless, the
Attorney General submitted, the mores have
changed in recent years, and many people, in-
stead of going to church, use Sunday for visiting
and entertainment. In this curious fashion, some
Clnistians, by merely staying away from their
churches, have— it would seem— changed the
meaning of Sunday not only for other Christians,
but even for Orthodox Jews; such was the con-
tention and such was the decision. Rather than
allow a few devout Seventh Day Adventists and
Orthodox Jews the same exemption that twenty-
one other states have granted without ill elfcct,
good Christians in Pennsylvania, Massachusetts,
and Maryland appear prepared to politicalize,
secularize, and downgrade their own sacred day.
No wonder Mephistophcles takes courage! If
they are prepared to deny their Sabbath, who
knows what they may deny next?
On the other hand, the best bait to ensnare
the churches may not be political power, but
loans or grants of public money. On this score,
Mephistopheles points out that, for the purpose
of destroying churches and church institutions,
certain types of public assistance are much more
efficacious than others because they create a con-
dition of financial dependence. Among the more
destructive types, for example, are assistance in
expanding personnel and capacity, or in pur-
chasing equipment that will soon become ob-
solete, or in paying teachers' salaries or the cost
of school-bus transportation— any assistance, in
fact, that can trap an institution into a commit-
ment of long-term outlay. If a church can solve
its financial problems by merely explaining that
every observance that appears to be religious—
and has always been considered so— is really
secular in essence, well then, secular all of them
must be!
This much accomplished, we hasten to the
stage of open demolition. The church being no
longer in a position to question that so-called
"religious" education, "religious" observance,
and "religious" creed are essentially secular, it
is manifestly incumbent on the state to organize
and regulate these activities in the public
interest.
Perhaps it would be well, Mephistopheles
suggests, to begin with matters of external ob-
servance and adajjt them to modern engineering
standards. In order to reduce congestion on the
highways and increase the utility of recreational
and resort facilities, the day of rest heretofore
observed on Sunday will be distributed through-
out the week, the population being divided for
the purpose into seven categories assigned to the
respective days, with leave to apply for transfer
in the event of marriage or divorce. Moreover,
the dates of Christmas and Easter will be fixed
annually by a majority vote of the retail mer-
chants subject to veto by a majority vote of
milliners.
A BAN ON KOSHER SHOPS
NEXT, at the instance of the pork-packing
industry and its many loyal friends in the
right places, all kosher shops and restaurants
will be ruled against public policy and sum-
marily banned. Something must also be done for
the real-estate interests. As it is uneconomic and
wasteful for the various religious denominations
to conduct worship services in different edifices
(some of them located on very choice corners),
they will be required by law to share a specified
list of church buildings at hours to be arranged.
The remaining parcels will be condemned to
provide municipal parking lots. In addition,
since the so-called "religious" practice of lifelong
celibacy is manifestly disadvantageous to several
difTerent professions and industries, a commission
will be appointed to investigate the practice and
recommend appropriate remedial legislation.
Furthermore, Mephistopheles calls attention
to certain doctrines and modes of behavior,
formerly considered to have "religious" import
but now discovered to be strictly secular in
nature. These require no preliminary investiga-
tion; they are so obviously deleterious. It will be
made a serious crime to advocate or knowingly
join, assist, or conspire with any group or organ-
ization that advocates poverty, abstinence, or
self-denial— all of which the Congress finds
inimical to and subversive of American business.
Similarly, since competent authorities have re-
ported that the preaching of peace and universal
brotherhood is injurious to military discipline
and national security, institutions which permit
this activity and all related and associated schools
will become ineligible to receive public grants
and will be required to repay any grants received
during the preceding twenty years.
It may be that this legislative program will
require a certain period of adjustment. Hot-
heads may criticize and a few may even oj)pose
the dawn of the new, secularized era. Mcphis-
lojiheles is ready with a strikingly simple device
to eliminate all friction or conflict.
BY EDMOND CAHN
39
This is the final phase of his program, a plan
of beautiful simplicity. He recommends that the
power of appointing— or, as it used to be called,
"ordaining"— the clergymen of any and all de-
nominations and religions be vested in the Presi-
dent of the United States subject to confirmation
by the United States Senate.
For all its brilliance, the idea may involve a
few difficulties. For a while, there may be a few
strains between the major political parties and
even b^ween Senators and local district leaders
in filling the more desirable posts. But since
Francisco Franco solved the problem in Spain by
obtaining personal control over the selection and
appointment of bishops, why doubt that Ameri-
can know-how will do at least as well? To con-
summate the entire program. Congress need only
confer on the President the ex-officio title of
Supreme Head of All Churches and Defender of
All Faiths.
WHAT WE CANNOT AFFORD
IT I S time to return soberly to the wisdom of
the Founding Fathers. The churches ^v'hich
so many of us cherish are in grave jeopardy.
Since their beginnings when our ancestors suf-
fered and sacrificed to build them, they have
faced no deadlier threat. The outlook is not a
bit less ominous because those who propose to
intermingle the church with the political state
happen to be well-intentioned. Regardless of
denominations, creeds, and intentions, they are
dangerously misguided. All church members-
Catholics and Protestants, Jews and Christians
—have the same interest in resisting them. As
Elihu Root said, "It is not a question of religion,
or of creed, or of party; it is a question of de-
claring and maintaining the great American
principle of eternal separation between church
and state."
True, maintaining the principle may cost us
inconvenience, misunderstanding, and even hos-
tility. But did fear of embarrassment silence
Jefferson or Madison? Like them, wc consider
the wall of separation indispensable to both
church and state, and to om- country's freedom.
Indispensable we know it is to the welfare of
the churches; but why is it equally indispensable
to the political state? Because today, more than
ever before, the government of the most powerful
democracy on earth needs the critical scrutiny
of independent churches, their visions, exhorta-
tions, and imsparing rebukes. Organized religion
knows no higher duty than to maintain the
enduring ideals and universal values that exceed
the jurisdiction of any earthly power, transcend
the widest political boundaries, and defy the
ciurents of popular opinion. The louder the
voice of the people in a society, the more it
requires tlic inner monitions of religious con-
science.
In recent years, the inroads and encroachments
have grown serious. If we do not speak out for
principle today, we or our children may later
have to fight for ii. .V little retreat, a little
delay, a little appeasement— these will only en-
courage the misguided lo attempt further aggres-
sions. Silence has become too costly; we can no
longer afford it. A little candor, a little courage,
a little intransigence exhibited openly here and
now— these will surely preserve the integrity of
our religious institutions. The times have sum-
moned us.
THE DAILY GLOBE by Howard Nemerov
EACH day another installment of the old
Romance of Order brings to the breakfast table
The paper flowers of catastrophe.
One has this recurrent dream about the world.
Headlines declare the ambiguous oracles.
The comfortable old prophets mutter doom.
Man's greatest intellectual pleasure is
To repeat himself, yet somehow the daily globe
Rolls on, Avhile the characters in comic strips
Prolong their slow, interminable lives
Beyond the segregated photographs
Of the girls that marry and the men that die.
Harper's Magazine, November 1961
LOUIS B. SALOMON
THE GAME OF WORDS
. . . Perhaps the best one since Scrabble
for people who persist in
thinking the English language makes sense.
AW O R D game— that's something we play
for fun to take our mind off the capri-
ciousness of the game we play for keeps every
time we open our mouth to ask for beer or road
directions, every time we write a note to the
milkman or a letter to the newspaper. Feeling
intuitively how much we have at stake in the real
language game, we hate to admit to ourselves
that it doesn't dance to logical tunes of our own
composing, and whenever it misses a step we
prefer to pretend that it didn't happen.
Among our many illusions about the way we
write and speak, one of the hardest to give up-
even when it costs us money— is the assumption
that one word stands for one thing or concept,
even though the concept may be as atomic as
that represented by a or the or of. If, for ex-
ample, you ever pause to wonder why it costs
twice as much to mention, say, a New Zealander
in a telegram as it does to mention, say, an
Irishman, you will probably shrug off both the
expense and the question with, '*Oh well.
Irishman is one word and Nrrv Zealander is two,"
and turn right back to building your birdhouse
or your chicken house, or whistling your game
(log If) luring b;Kk the game bird so that you
can stuff it into your gamebag— provided the
gamekeeper hasn't nabbed you as an unlicensed
game hunter.
If anyone asks you why Irishman is one word
and New Zealander two, you will probably tell
him to go peddle his newspapers, and if driven
to it you will spin out some cobwebby sophism
to convince yourself that when you say "news-
paper" or "wallpaper" you are thinking of a
single concept while "wrapping paper" or
"carbon paper" represents two concepts. You
have, of course, a logical, orderly mind, and you
know as surely as you know the reality of a warm
bed or a cold martini that language consists
of words and words are units of meaning. Other-
wise . . . well, hang it all, otherwise just doesn't
make sense.
If any doubt nags you, you can fall back on
the dictionaries for support and comfort. Thus
the Merriam-Webster Collegiate defines word
as "the smallest unit of speech that has meaning
when taken by itself." The American College
Dictionary calls it "an element which can stand
alone as an utterance, not divisible into two or
more parts similarly characterized; thus boy and
boyish, but not -ish or boy scout, the former
being less than a word, the latter more."
But doesn't this rather beg the question of why
boy scout is more than a word, and leave us also
wondering why, when a boy scout feels chilly
on his campground, he pulls up a camp chair in
front of the campfire— or why, if he does his own
laundering, he has to support his clothesline
with a clothes pole, until he either hangs his
duds on a clothes hanger or stows them away in
a clothespress? Yet 1 know people who would lie
awake all night figuring out an excuse for be-
lieving that clothes hanger represents two con-
cepts and clothesline only one, rather than admit
that the only difference lies in the custom of
spacing on the written page that happens to be
followed by most of the well-educated writers
of English today.
Of course there is always the in-between device
of the hyphen. In a sense all standard hyphenated
compounds (that is, those that appear in "tlie
dictionary") are weasel words, confessions of
vacillation between our sense that they rej^re-
sent a single concept, as nearly as may be, and
our filial subservience to the rules of the editor's
stylebook. The modern current in English has
set in the direction of combination, first \i;\ the
hyphen, like a timid swimmer hesitantly wetting
himself to the knees, and finally the bold plunge,
made only in behalf of individual compounds,
seldom systematically for all expressions of a
tyj)e. Your hand-knit sweater is, by definition,
handmade; it will keep you warm under the
star-spangled (or starlit) sky of a clear autumn
night. If, through overexposure in the sun
parlor, you should become siui-struck, the doctor
\vill treat you for sunstroke.
Sometimes the in-between stage is lacking, and
we have only the fiUly integrated swimmer and
the non-swimmer standing on the dry shore of
apartheid, with no logical reason why either
should not be in the other's place. The finger
marks on your highball glass look just like the
fingerprints you left on the windowpane (or on
the window shade or the window sill). You
toss a hand grenade at your enemy, a handball to
your friend. Against a head wind you make
very little headway.
TRIAL BY TELEGRAPH
TH E ivy-clad ivory towers may (and do)
ring with debate as to whether boy scout
functions as a single part of speech; whether
hyphenated compounds like xvell-spent are single
words; whether, in an uninflected language like
English, will go might not just as well be written
ivillgo, thus disposing of the argument over
whether English verbs have a future tense. But
it occurred to me recently to inquire into the
practice of one agency whose approach to the
question must be uncompromisingly pragmatic:
the Western Union Telegraph Company. When
41
the grammarian sends a birthday wire to his
maiden aunt he has to pay by the Company's
standard of word-counting, which in turn must
have semantic repercussions, since even if you're
a grammarian what you have to pay for as a
^vord surely must be a word, and a word is a
unit of meaning, etc., etc.
The result of my correspondence (by United
States mail both ways: one ounce of words for
four cents) with a high oflicial of the Company,
whose patience must have been sorely tried but
whose courtesy never faltered, is as follows: the
Company charges hyphenated compounds as
single words, and in doubtful cases it accepts the
authority of any standard dictionary to which
a customer may appeal. Thus if you were send-
ing a wire concerning those slippery rocks which
(sometimes) keep your feet out of the creek bed,
you could, if money is no object, refer to them
as stepping sto)ies, or you could go the cheaper
way with either stepping-slones or steppingstones,
the three forms being found in as many reputable
dictionaries of recent date. (Tennyson char-
acteristically chose the path of moderation when
he wrote of those stepping-stones on which men
rise from their dead selves to higher things.)
Standard dictionaries of approximately the
same vintage, however, seldom vary widely
enough to warrant your carrying an armload of
reference books each time you visit a branch
office of the Telegraph Company. Anyway, even
advance planning can't always beat the game.
For example, w^hilc my learned friends are
puzzling why paving st on c—unVikc hearthstone
or millstone— represents two concepts, I note
glumly that if I develop a kidney stone it will
cost me twice as much to notify them by wire
of my affliction as it will if I c(mie doAvn Avith a
gallstone.
If, however, any admirer of this article should
send me a brocaded night robe, I'd save money by
thanking him telegraphicalh for a nightdress;
whereas if the gift should be a tableclotli I'd pay
through the nose for my stuffiness if I called it
table linen. If you're about to jump in with
"Aha! a tablecloth is a single thing, but table
linen includes both tablecloilis and napkins,"
Louis B. Salomon, associate professor of Eng-
lish at Brooklyn College, specializes in language
and semantics. During a Fulbright year in Finland
(1958-59), he found the problem of this article
simplified by a language which squeezes ivords
together like clay. He was an Air Force intelligence
officer in World War II.
42 THE GAME OF WORDS
just calm down long enough to remember that a
gift of knives, forks, spoons, cups, saucers, etc.,
could all be acknowledged at the one-word rate
as tableware.
TRIAL BY LOGIC
PROBABLY the notion of the word as
the "unit of meaning" is a relic of a far
less literate era than ouis— of a lime when for
the majority of people a sentence consisted of a
more or less continuous chain of speech-sounds
which could be arbitrarily tied off like sausages
into units corresponding to concepts. Even then,
of course, the locating of the exact phonetic
division-points sometimes reflected accident more
than logic; the history of words like adder, apron,
and nickname shows that there was a time when
the question of whether you w^ere saying a nadder
or an adder, an ekename or a nekenanie, would
only have made you squirm with embarrassment.
But in an age of almost universal literacy, words
of tongue may carry less prestige than words of
pen. Granted that in the normal way of life we
learn to speak before we learn to read, yet many
modern words, like G.I., O.K., WAC, and snafu,
could hardly have come into existence without
the written language; and we spend the greater
part of our life so compulsively manipulating—
and being manipulated by— the written language
that we have come, whether we admit it to our-
selves or not, to regard as a word (hence as a
unit of meaning) any meaningful speech-sound
or set of speech-sounds which is conventionally
represented in writing with a space before and
after. This is more or less a linguistic truism; it
is only when we try to justify such divisions on
logical grounds, or when we subconsciously allow
the conventions of writing to shape our thought-
processes, that we are likely to find ourselves
chasing will-o'-the-wisps in a semantic bog.
The National Institute of Drycleaning, for
example, (all my dictionaries speak of dry clean-
ing, not even dry-cleaning) has been campaigning
for years in behalf of drycleaning, on the ground,
as reported in a recent advertisement, that the
services its members offer should not be thought
of as only cleaning. "They use water and steam
as well as solvents, and, for certain fabrics and
soil problems, even do wetcleaning." I think
these people are waging a real episiemological
crusade, noi just trying to cut down their tele-
graph bills.
The basic qucstitm is: at what point do
two or more closely related (on(ci)ts merge
like mercury drrjps into a single concept? Does
the writing-convention in any case merely reflect
our semantic stance, or does the former actually
influence our view of the meaning of a verbal
symbol?
in the examples given thus far— and many
others like them— the original word "parts"
are still so clearly recognizable that one often
has to consult an up-to-date dictionary to
find what practice bears the current seal of ap-
proval. But what of words that in another
language, or in an earlier form of English, re-
sulted from a mechanical fusing of two or more
"separate words," the original forms being
known now only to scholars? The Greeks must
have been quite conscious of the compound
origin of hippopotamos, a slightly changed form
of which seems to the modern English-speaker
as homogeneous as, say, tiger or antelope; yet
our dictionaries list as its synonym river horse,
which points to the same two separate defining
qualities that impressed the Greeks.
People don't w®rry about a hippopotamus; to
most of them it is a comically ponderous mam-
mal which they may have seen at the zoo, but a
river horse is a faintly (so very faintly!) horselike
animal that likes to wallow in river mud. If we
only wrote it riverhorse, we might quit looking
for any trace of horsiness or river-addiction, just
as precious little horsiness is suggested to the
mind of a modern city-dweller by the word
saw horse.
You may say, of course, that neither river
horses nor sawhorses are "real" horses; that
metaphor leads a life outside the laws of logic.
Very well, what do we do about real horses? We
put one behind the plow or into the paddock
and point, as it were, to dual qualities in him as
a work horse or a race horse; but as soon as we
install him as sultan of an equine harem we
merge all his attributes into a "single" concept:
studhorse— thus showing, I assume, our trust that
he will devote himself single-mindedly to his
new duties.
No, you just can't make system out of it, no
matter if you try till you have brain fever in your
brainpan. If you can't face this you may find
solace in a one-word wineglass, or even deaden
the pain with fewer refills by pouring the stuff
into a two-word water glass. But don't, as you
value your sanity, try to rationalize it on any
other grounds. That woidd indeed be to jnmp
out of the frying pan— though not out of the
saucepan or the stewpan— into the fire.
And maybe if you just hold on long enough
water glass (in the sense of tumbler) will become
walerglass. Sometime. Well, anyway, some day.
Harper's Magazine, November 1961
JOSEPH KRAFT
The Comeback of the
STATE DEPARTMENT
After a dismaying start, Secretary Rusk is
finally gaining control over the most
wayward bureaucracy in Washington — with
promising results for U.S. foreign policy.
DURING the first six months of the
Kennedy Administration an abundance of
melancholy signs gave e\idence of serious trouble
at the Department of Slate. There was the un-
fortunate affair involving the possible oustei of
Chester Bowles. There were charges by State
of incursion by the White House and other
agencies. There was talk of conflict between
"Europe-Firsters" and 'Tringe-Firsters," "New
Boys" and "Old Boys," "Hard-boiled Eggs" and
"Soft-boiled Eggs." The President himself pub-
licly acknowledged the need "to make more
effective the structure and the personnel of the
State Department."
Underlying these difficulties was a staccato suc-
cession of crises that would have strained any
department in any Administration— Congo, Laos,
Cuba, the Dominican Republic, Bizerte, Brazil,
and then Berlin. These crises exposed in glaring
light deficiencies of personnel and procedure that
had long made State known as a "perennial prob-
lem." They also raised sharp questions about the
possibility of sorting into working order the
plenitude of energetic and able men brought by
the Kennedy Administration to the conduct of
foreign affairs.
A marked turn in the tide was apparent in
mid-August when State finally began to take
charge in the Berlin crisis. Secretary Rusk
emerged beyond any doubt as the President's
principal adviser on foreign policy. Small, but
significant, changes improved State's working ma-
chinery. In the process of clearing the decks for
Berlin, some crises were eased while others
dimmed in importance.
Even so there persist grave doubts about the
capacity of the Department to meet the needs of
the President in an era of unprecedented chal-
lenge. Because so much is at stake, ill-tempered
criticism could be an irresponsible act— like
screaming at a surgeon in the midst of an opera-
tion. But sober analysis may isolate structural
flaAvs and forward the rebuilding which seems to
be getting under way. At the least it may dispel
wild exaggeration of personal rivalry and policy
friction. For one thing is clear. The trouble at
State lies less in its stars than in itself.
AH Ab's crew
THE Department of State is one of the
smallest in the government: 37,000 em-
ployees, or about half of Treasury, a third of
Agriculture, an eightieth of Defense. But its
offices run around the world. Its volume of busi-
ness is enormous; 4,000 Cables a day, or more
than the combined total of the Associated Press
and United Press International offices in Wash-
ington. Its affairs affect every other agency in
Washington. And though still relatively small,
State has grown at a dizzying pace: up from less
than 1,000 employees in 1941.
Sudden growth and diverse responsibility have
given State an organization that is diagramed less
by an orderly row of boxes than by a topo-
graphical map of a chain of folded mountains.
The Department counts over forty major units
responsible directly to the Secretary. That in-
cludes fourteen Bureaus, ten of them headed
by Assistant Secretaries; two Agencies (Disarma-
ment and International Development); five
44
THE STATE DEPARTMENT
Special Assistants; one Adviser (legal); one
Center (Operations); one Council (Policy Plan-
ning); one Corporation (Development Loan
Fund); one Institute (Foreign Service). Nearly
three hundred different abbreviations (from A
for Assistant Secretary of Administration,
through WST for the Office of West Coast Affairs
in ARA, which stands for the Bureau of Inter-
American Affairs) are required to list the various
subsidiary layers.
Asymmetries, anomalies, and absurdities
abound. There is a Deputy Under Secretary
for Administration, but not an Under Secretary;
an Under Secretary for Economic Affairs but not
a Deputy Under Secretary. One Bureau (Cultural
Affairs) has under it a Special Projects Division
which, in turn, has under it a Special Activities
Branch. Another (Economic Affairs) harbors a
miniature cabinet: Office of International Trade
(Commerce Department); Office of International
Resources (Interior); Mutual Defense Assistance
Control Staff (Defense); Foreign Reporting Staff
(State); Commodities Division (Agriculture);
Office of Transport and Communications (Post
Office). The logic of a small boy looking for a
spot to stow his gum seems to have inspired the
placing of the two officials directly responsible
to the Under Secretary. One is the Chief of
Protocol. The other is the Special Assistant for
Fisheries and Wildlife.
The men and women staffing these offices
are about as uniform as the crew of Ahab's
Pequod. Roughly half of State's employees are
foreign nationals serving abroad. Well over a
third are in the Agency for International De-
velopment—itself, once, an independent organ.
Though the task force headed by Henry Wriston
in 1954 pushed the Department far and fast
toward integration. State's personnel is still
spread out in four different groups: Foreign
Service Officers; Foreign Service Staff, Foreign
Service Reserve; regular Civil Service. Each
group has different terms of pay, promotion,
tenure, and retirement.
Formal machinery for managing the bureau-
cratic maze is relatively slight. The Secretary
confers every morning with the principal officers
of the Department in regular staff meetings. In
I
Joseph Kraft has spent years absorbing back-
ground for this study of the State Department
while preparing articles on politics, defense, and
complex private institutions such as RAND. He is
a former newspaperman and speech-writer for
Kennedy whose first book, "The Struggle for Al-
geria," has just been published by Doublcday.
addition, there is an Executive Secretariat
charged with White House liaison, co-ordinating
the work of State's top officials and moving im-
portant papers to appropriate places at ap-
propriate times. That is the sum total of daily
topside control over the Department. Though
improvements have undoubtedly been made,
there is still truth in the observation made in
1950 by James McCamy, a leading student of the
Department's administration, that "the element
that is conspicuously missing is the development
of staff services to the Secretary to enable him
to keep informed and to co-ordinate."
Administrative tidiness, to be sure, is one of
the lesser purposes of government. But there is
innate harmony between structure and outlook,
routine and mood. Overlapping authority and
unclear lines of responsibility traditionally breed
timidity, lack of initiative, slowness in conception
and execution. In the case of State, these are
qualities already generated in abundance by
functional pressures and an unhappy past.
Diplomacy, a chief function of the Depart-
ment, is generally defined as the process of
settling disputes between states by the process
of negotiation. It is— in other, and cruder, words
—a way to live with problems. Its practice, in
extraordinary circumstances, demands and calls
forth high qualities of mind. Truly distin-
guished analytical work has been done by former
Foreign Service Officers who lived through the
turmoil of the war in Russia and China. But in
less stirring conditions, diplomacy can lapse into
pushing papers. The impact on men between
twenty-five and thirty-five years old, men acquir-
ing—or not acquiring— the habit of decision, can
be deadly. According to the Hoover Commission
report of 1949, this is the way an average Foreign
Service Officer of about thirty years in age, and
five years' experience, might expect to spend
three-quarters of his time: incoming and out-
going mail, 30 per cent; personnel matters, prop-
erty control, and administration, 5 per cent;
trade disputes and trade letters, 5 per cent; rail-
way priorities and distribution of imports, 5 per
cent; reports, 5 per cent; consultation with chiefs,
15 per cent; other interviews, 10 per cent.
THE BROTHERS IT
THAT such a routine was hardly calculated
to stimulate the habit of bold decision was
explicitly recognized by the Foreign Service itself.
Until 1948, instructions to the board preparing
examinations for Foreign Service Officers in-
cluded this precept:
BY JOSEPH KRAFT
45
It might be dangerous to attempt to overcome
defects caused by the nature of the profession by a
change in the selection procedure. For example,
it is possible that Foreign Service officers develop
a high degree of caution in their statements con-
cerning political or economic problems because
of the extent to which their opinions or decisions
are subject to review. However, if the examination
system attempted to select individuals with out-
standing initiative and independence of thought
and action, these individuals might quickly become
unhappy in the Service and might disrupt the
Service to such an extent as to seriously interfere
with its proper functioning.
Prose of that sort tended to put an added
brake on initiative and independence. The dis-
course of diplomacy approaches a dead language.
Formal phrases ("The Secretary of State presents
his compliments to his Excellency and . . .")
abound. So do circumlocutions. Where anyone
else might say, "I think," State's way is to say,
"The Department believes . . ." Especially in
favor is the passive construction: "It was learned
that . . ."; "It is believed that . . ." "Sometimes
you get the impression," E. W. Kenworthy, the
astute State Department correspondent of the
Neio York Times, once remarked, "that there are
only two people around here: It was, and his
brother. It is."
Such disposition for self-assertion as survived
these occupational pressures, moreover, found
heavy weather in the political chances of the past
decade. Under the pressure of "McCarthyism,"
many of State's boldest and bravest were driven
from the Department, while others drew the ap-
propriate lesson— which was to play it safe. John
Foster Dulles' inclination to work out problems
by himself or with a very few top advisers had the
side effect of discouraging initiative in the ranks.
"We went to the Secretary's press conference,"
high Department officials recall, "to find out
what was going on."
It is hardly surprising that year after year
virtually everybody found trouble at State. James
McCamy, in 1950, called the Department a
"perennial problem." George Kennan, in 1952,
found "an administrative ruin, packed with peo-
ple who had never undergone the normal en-
trance requirements, hemmed in and suffocated
by competing services, demoralized by anony-
mous security agents in whose judgment and
disinterestedness its members had little con-
fidence, a helpless object of disparagement and
defamation at the hands of outside critics." So
careful a man as Sherman Adams noted "the
strong aversion among foreign-service career men
to anything imaginative and original." "No-
body," Dean Acheson said, "has been able to run
the Department in a hundred and fifty years."
To the perennial problem, the Kennedy Ad-
ministration brought one new complication. It
blocked out for the Secretary of State a role akin
to that of foreign secretaries elsewhere, but
sharply at variance with recent American tradi-
tion.
LOW KEY AT THE TOP
COMPARE Lord Home with Lord Cas-
tlereagh, Maurice Couve de Murville with
Maurice de Talleyrand, Gromyko with Nessel-
rode, and there emerges a major trend of modern
history. Over the years international affairs have
increasingly come to dominate the vital business
of every nation. Foreign policy, in consequence,
has increasingly become the primary concern of
the central political establishment, and notably
of its chief— be he Prime Minister, Premier, or
Party Secretary. By the same token, there has
been a steady decline in the independent in-
fluence and authority of foreign ministers. Just
as war has become too serious to be entrusted to
the generals, so peace has become too important
to be left to the diplomats.
During the immediate postwar period, special
Constitutional arrangements seemed to exempt
this country from the general pattern. The
balance of power between Executive and Legisla-
ture, and the indefinite role assigned the Cabinet,
leave immense scope for the working of person-
ality. The first postwar President came to office
inexperienced in foreign affairs, while the sec-
ond was prone to delegate vast authority. Under
Truman, Acheson, and under Eisenhower,
Dulles, became the chief makers of American
foreign policy.
But John F. Kennedy brought to the White
House a restless energy, an enormous appetite for
detail, and (despite the campaign talk) more ex-
perience of foreign affairs (two decades as stu-
dent, soldier. Congressman, and Senator) than
any previous incoming President in this century.
He was determined to play an active part in both
the formulation and the execution of foreign
policy: "to place himself," as he told the Na-
tional Press Club in a speech on the Presidency
in January 1960, "in the very thick of the fight."
It was thus essential that he find a Secretary o£
State who knew who was President. By a process
of elimination, he made a choice that could have
been reached by the process of inspiration.
David Dean Rusk, the fifty-fifth American
Secretary of State, fits none of the categories that
have characterized his predecessors— and made
46
THE STATE DEPARTMENT
them such easy marks for attack. Unlike Dulles,
Acheson, Stimson, Hughes, and Root, he is not a
corporation lawyer from the Ivy League. Unlike
Byrnes, Hull, Kellogg, Bryan, and Blaine, he is
not a political personality. A Rhodes Scholar
Avith enduring ties to Europe, but also the first
Secretary with deep personal experience of Asia,
he is neither Atlantic- nor Pacific-minded. A
soldier before he was a diplomat, and a pro-
fessor before that, he is neither pacifist nor saber-
rattler. Versed in the open forums of the United
Nations, but equally in secret negotiations, he is
neither "old" nor "new" diplomatist. A Georgia
farm boy who taught in California and came to
New York to preside over Rockefeller millions,
he is neither North nor South, East nor West. It
is not even clear whether he belongs with the
rich or the poor.
With an absence of debits go impressive credits.
A bear for work. Rusk has been called (by U. S.
News 6- World Report) "the busiest man in
"Washington." His mind is terse and incisive;
here, for example, is his reasoning on the com-
plex issue of neutralist countries: "I do not be-
lieve we should insist that anyone who is not
with us is against us." Around Rusk's remark-
ably full personal experience, there could be
written a long chapter of American history.
Before becoming President of the Rockefeller
Foundation in 1952, he was, first, a Professor of
International Relations at Mills College; next
an Army officer, rising to the post of Deputy
Chief of Staff in the China-Burma-India Theatre;
I hen a State Department official, serving as Assist-
int Secretary for United Nations Affairs, Deputy
Under Secretary, and (during the Korean War)
Assistant Secretary for Far Eastern Affairs.
Close ties to both Dean Acheson (who pushed
him for his present job) and John Foster Dulles
Cwho brought him to the Foundation) testify to a
i,nft for getting on with people. A wit that
bubbles irrepressibly is a part of the gift. "If
you want Vietnam, I'll take the Marines," he
once told Secretary Robert McNamara in a con-
versation that ended with transfer of a task force
on Vietnam from Defense to State. When the
usually touchy subject of personal finances came
up during his confirmation hearings, Rusk broke
up the Senators in this exchange:
Q. What do yf)u do with your money?
A. Well. I begin, sir, by paying taxes.
Xative graciousness supplements good humor.
"\o one does the sweaniig in (eremony better
ihan Rusk, " a Sine Department veteran says.
When Abubukar Balcwa, the Prime Minister of
Nigeria, visited Washington, Rusk combined a
discreet reference to his origin in the primitive,
northern section of Nigeria, with a graceful
allusion to the race issue. "In my country," he
said, "I am a liberal in the South and a con-
servative in the North; in yours, you are a liberal
in the North, and a conservative in the South."
Lastly, there is a quality complementary to the
President's bent for brisk action. The Secretary
can move very swiftly, as he did in the first stages
of the Korean operation. He can also be sharp
in expression: "You invoke my ire, and the ire of
all my Presbyterian forebears," he once began a
letter to a friend. But his preference is for the
cautious, imdramatic approach. "Low key" is
one of his favorite expressions. He is comfortable
when moving through regular channels: he
brought no personal assistants with him from
State to the Foimdation, and took only one (a
secretary) back. In appointments, he seems to go
for experience over^analytic brilliance. As Deputy
Under Secretary he chose former Ambassador to
Thailand, U. Alexis Johnson, though he might
have had McGeorge Bundy. As chief of Policy
Planning, he picked former Ambassador to
Turkey, George McGhec; he could have had
Walt R OS tow.
In dealing with a big problem, he likes to
look the ground over carefully, considering all
aspects, letting his mind explore different solu-
tions before committing himself. It is typical
that in his first talk to the policy-making officers
of the Department, on February 20, he em-
phasized in a forceful comparison the need to
cover all bases:
The pilot of a jet aircraft has a check list of
many dozen questions which he must answer satis-
factorily before he takes off his plane on a flight.
Would it not be interesting and revealing if we
had a check list of questions which we would
answer systematically before we take off on a
policy?
For several months, Rusk's low key appeared
to be drowned out. He saw the President only
twice before confirmation, and at the Senate
hearings virtually acknowledged he had had no
chance to discuss with him so vital a matter as
China policy. In March when the President, in
his first critical foreign-policy test, met Prime
Minister Macmillan to discuss Laos at Key West,
Rusk was at the SEATO meeting in Bangkok.,
When the President, in his second crucial round
of meetings, met President de Gaulle in Paris,
RusJc was held up in Washington dealing with
the aftermath of the assassination of General
BY JOSEPH KRAFT
47
Trujillo of the Dominican Republic. Meanwhile
more glamorous personalities seemed to be willy-
nilly attracting more attention. There was
Ambassador Adlai Stevenson at the United Na-
tions; Under Secretary Chester Bowles; Assistant
Secretary for African Affairs, G. Mennen Wil-
liams; Adolph Berle, a Presidential adviser on
Latin America; Dean Acheson, a Presidential ad-
viser on Europe; and, at the National Security
Council, both McGeorge Bundy and Walt
Rostow.
After Cuba especially, when everything sud-
denly looked to be going sour, the seeming
eclipse of Dean Rusk became something of a
cause relrhrc—grht to Washington's immense
underground machinery for the milling of
rumois and the minting of mots. Rusk was said
to be a "loner" and a "compulsive insider," too
"inhibited" to express his views with force. It
was claimed that he did not take decisive stands
on controversial issues— not on Cuba, not on
Laos, not on Berlin, not on Bowles. Journalists
called him the "mystery man," the "quiet man,"
"the last man on the last train." "Rusk," a
disgruntled foreign diplomat complained, "would
make a great Secretary of State— if only de Gaulle
were President."
LESS THAN CRACE NOTES
1H E Department, meanwhile, was faring
far worse than the Secretary. It had been
the intention of the Administration to let in
light and air: to vest high responsibility in State,
and to create a climate of confidence. As a ges-
ture of support, the President himself dropped
in at one of the Secretary's early staff meetings.
To show that he would call on the informed ex-
pert as well as the high official, he took with him
to the Key West conference with Prime Minister
Macmillan, not only some of State's brass, but
also the Laos desk officer, Christian Chapman.
"We have a President," Secretary Rusk told the
Department in his message of February 20,
who will rely heavily upon the Department of
State for the conduct of our foreign relations. This
will not be a passive reliance but an active ex-
pectation on his part that this Department will in
fact take charge of foreign policy.
The expansion of the Department's respon-
sibilities was not accompanied by any increase in
the machinery for giving topside guidance. On
the contrary, organization was kept deliberately
lean. In one of his first acts the President dis-
solved the Operations Control Board— a special
watchdog committee used by the Eisenhower Ad-
ministration to keep tabs on the action of all
agencies in the national security field, including
State. The Kennedy theory seemed to be that
competent men at State woidd reach out and
take responsibility. "Power gravitates," Secretary
Rusk said in his remarks on February 20, "to
those who are willing to make decisions and live
with the results, simply becatise there are so
many who readily yield to the intrepid few who
take their duties seriously."
In practice, the results have been highly un-
even. Steadily, good performance has come from
bureaus and divisions headed by able men armed
with a clear sense of purpose. There is general
agreement that the Under Secretary for Economic
Affairs, George Ball, and his staff have handled
with great skill preparations for the merger of
the European Six and Seven as well as negotia-
tions on the touchy subject of reducing textile
exports to the United States. Harlan Cleveland,
Assistant Secretary for International Organiza-
tion Affairs, has done equally well, and his
bureau is occasionally used by the Secretary to
run a check on the work of other units in the
Department. Governor Williams has imparted
remarkable elan to the once demoralized Bineau
of African Affairs. "American policy on the
Congo," one member of his staff says, "used to be
run by the Pentagon, the CIA, the European
desks— by everyone but us. Now we're running
it. We're the voice in government that speaks
for this country's African interest."
But men eager to take charge have not found
their way to all the top posts. A key man in
European affairs, for example, speaks of Dean
Acheson as "the old master," and of himself and
his staff as "us boys." A key man in Policy
Planning thinks it is idle for the Department to
work out varying courses of action for different
hypothetical contingencies. A key man in a unit
concerned chiefly with crisis spots has long been
known, because of the afternoon torpor habitu-
ally induced by leisurely lunches, as "The Torp."
A key man in Inter-American Affairs who had
important business with the United States In-
formation Agency felt obliged to ask the White
House for an introduction to USIA Director
Edward R. Murrow. A key man in Congressional
Relations is hardly ever seen on Capitol Hill. A
key man in press relations is not clear on the
difference between this magazine and Harper's
Bazaar.
The flow of work from these and other bu-
reaus has been systematically disappointing to
the White House. Most of the complaints come
on small items: failure to answer a letter from
48
THE STATE DEPARTMENT
Prince Souvanna Phouma of Laos; failure to
name a special economic representative in Bo-
livia, months after the President publicly com-
mitted himself to the appointment. But there
has been dissatisfaction with State's performance
on major issues as well, as two examples will
make clear.
One involves this country's response to Nikita
Khrushchev's opening gun in the 1961 Berlin
campaign: the aidc-ynemoirr he handed to Presi-
dent Kennedy in Vienna on June 4. The United
States made reply on July 17. Though 43 days
in the making, and 34 long paragraphs in the
telling, the American note was, by wide con-
sensus, something less than a diplomatic triumph.
The British and French sent separate, shorter,
notes. The London Times commented that the
stress of the American note on the history of
the Berlin issue was "negative," while Le Monde
of Paris said that in tone it seemed "modeled on
a Soviet note." At his news conference of July 19,
the President publiclv expressed concern at the
long consultation period required in preparation
of the note. Privately, he had already expressed
even stronger concern at a meeting of his closest
personal advisers called over the weekend of
July 4. A covering statement on the note, issued
at the July 19 press conference, was originally
written in the hope it might be incorporated into
the note to add punch. "When it came to pre-
paring his July 25 address to the nation on
Berlin, the President, in the major drafting
stages, kept clear of the Department's Berlin
experts.
WHITE HOUSE MEDDLING
'•> 9
A SECOND example concerns Cuban
policy. At a National Security Council
meeting on April 22, in the immediate aftermath
of the abortive invasion. State was given the task
of preparing a comprehensive survey of possible
policies for the future. Preparation of the survey
was assigned to the Bureau of Inter-American
Affairs. What emerged from the Bureau was a
ihirty-page "laundry list" of all possible moves
("They just lifted everything they had in the
files and stuck it in," was one comment.) It was
bare of analysis. But it featured— less apparently
from conviction than from an effort to second-
guess the mood of the \\'hiie House— a strongly
interventionist tone. It reached the Secretary's
office at 10:30 on the evening of April 26-less
I ban twelve hours before it was due for presenta-
tion at a follow-up meeting of the National
.Security Council.
At the time. Secretary Rusk was in Ankara at
a meeting of the Central Treaty Organization
(CENTO). Under Secretary Bowles had left his
office for the day, with the understanding that
the draft would be carefully scrutinized by the
Department's other top officials. One of these did
not reali/e that the draft was supposed to be
more a smvey than a recommendation; he was
struck by the emphasis on intervention— a step
•which he, and practically everybody else at the
Department, opposed. He and his staff, working
through the night, produced a counter-paper. In
strong terms it argued against further interven-
tion in Cid^a. In qualitv. it reflected an overnight
job.
At the staff meeting early next morning,
Bowles received the draft prepared by the Bureau
of Inter-American Affairs. He too balked at the
interventionist tone. When he asked if anything
else A\'as available, the counter-paper was pro-
duced. ^Vith no, time left for further drafting,
Bowles went over to the ^Vhite House with both
the original draft and the counter-paper.
.\t the NSC meeting, he first presented the
counter-paper. The President glanced through
the first two paragraphs, then cast it aside. The
original draft, whicli was presented subsequently,
met a similar fate. In the course of the meeting,
it was decided to establish a task force to con-
sider the Cuban problem. In naming a chair-
man of the task force, the President looked right
by State. He chose Paul Nitze, the Assistant
Secretary of Defense for International Security
Affairs. Another task force set up at the same
meeting— a task force on Vietnam— was assigned
to RosAvell Gilpatric, Deputy Secretary of De-
fense. Only through the personal intervention
of Dean Rusk, several days later, did State get
control of the two task forces.
In response to such j:)erformances, the Ad-
ministration was obliged to curb the impulse to
give the State Department major responsibility
for foreign affairs. Just to get things done, the
White House had to improvise a ^vide range of
ad hoc devices. By-passing the Department, as
in the case of the Berlin speech, was one of
these. Another was the repeated creation of task
forces— focusing talent from many departments
and the White House on a single issue. A third
was increasing assiunjition of operational re-
sponsibility by the ^\'hite House staff; in this
connection it is notable that w4iat the Depart-
ment calls "White House meddling" has come
chiefly (from Presidential assistants Arthur
Schlesingcr and Richard Goodwin) in the field
of Latin American affairs— the weakest section of
BY JOSEPH KRAFT
49
the Department. It was in this context, as still a
fourth device, that the Bowles affair came to pass.
Mr. Bowles came to the State Department as
an outspoken critic of old-fashioned diplomatic
methods, of some members of the Foreign Service,
and of overemphasis on European interests and
the use of military force. His convictions were
expressed in the designation of Ambassadors— a
selection which has been widely praised, and for
which he bore major responsibility; in appoint-
ments to the Department, for which he bore a
good deal of responsibility; and in a few policy
matters. On all these counts he inevitably
aroused some antipathy inside the Department.
On all these issues, however, the President stood
far more nearly with than against Bowles.
But State's persistent weakness in the perform-
ance of its regular duties brought the President
to the conclusion that he needed a strong man-
agerial hand in the up|>er reaches of the Depart-
ment. Dean Rusk was too busy with substantive
problems to take on that added responsibility.
Bowles, though richly experienced in administra-
tion, had more taste for plaiuiing and the de-
velopment of new ideas than for scrubbing
bureaucratic backstairs, and from the beginning
he had understood that he was not to be primar-
ily charged with managerial finictions. It was to
make room for another man, and without per-
sonal animus or political edge, that the President,
at a White House meeting on July 13, suggested
that Mr. Bowles might be happier in another
post.
Even before the President saw Bowles, how-
ever, word of his intention had leaked out.
Bowles's critics at once set up a victory cry.
"Bowles down, Williams to go," was one of the
cocktail-party comments. Expressive of that view,
and not of the President's as widely surmised,
was the very first newspaper story of the affair.
In it, Charles Bartlett, Washington correspond-
ent of the Chattanooga Times, wrote:
Critical hostility of the career government service
has rarely been directed toward a public official
with the consensus and emotion now apparent at
the working levels of the State Department in re-
gard to Under Secretary Chester Bowles.
Inevitably, partisans of the Bowles policies in
the Administration, the Congress, and the press
shot back. Two White House staff members
wrote the President advising that Bowles be re-
tained on policy grounds. The New York Post,
in an editorial, said:
Under Secretary Chester Bowles is under heavy
fire from that strange alliance of the Pentagon bat-
talion, the Acheson legion, and the rightist Con-
gressional guerrillas, all of whom regard him as a
threat to what certain commentators call the
"hard" line in foreign affairs.
With the issue at once grossly distorted and
grossly inflated, the President held his hand. But
it was in these circumstances, at his press con-
ference of July 19, that he made reference to the
need to make more effective the structure and
personnel of the State Department— a mild, but
unmistakable rebuke. That same week he was
quoted (by Life) as calling the Department, in
private, "a bowl of jelly." At that point, the
relations between State and the White House
had touched bottom.
''easy assurance"
STATE'S comeback has proceeded the way
such things will— by fits and starts, along
many lines, sometimes almost imperceptibly. In
mid-August several early plantings began to bear
fruit, while not a few nettles withered away.
Gentle coaxing brought Britain to the verge of
joining the European Common Market— a strik-
ing foreign-policy success for the Administration.
In the Congo, support for the United Nations
and the principle of parliamentary decision
brought a drawing together of conflicting forces
(Katanga excepted), at the clear expense of Com-
munist interest. In Laos, a reasonably effective
cease-fire gave promise of a neutral and independ-
ent government— the Administration's target from
the beginning. Potential explosions in Bizerte and
Brazil were damped down. Patience in negotia-
tion on bomb-testing paid off when the Russians
took upon themselves the onus of initiating new
tests.
At roughly the same time there came a quiet
decision in the Bowles affair. Bowles was con-
firmed as Under Secretary with the duty of acting
in Rusk's stead when the Secretary was away,
and with special responsibilities for planning
and appointment. Management of the Depart-
ment in its daily routine was passed to the Under
Secretary for Economic Affairs, George Ball.
Most important of all, by that time, a sorting
out of top personnel had set the stage for Dean
Rusk's emergence. Adlai Stevenson and Governor
Williams had settled to the routine of challeng-
ing jobs. Bowles was in trouble. Berle, when it
became plain that his presence impeded the
search for a competent Assistant Secretary in the
Latin American field, had resigned. The ap-
pointment of General Maxwell Taylor, as a
Presidential adviser, had dimmed, at least
slightly, the luster of Bundy and Rostow. Dean
50
THE STATE DEPARTMENT
\cheson, not for the first time, was betrayed by a
sharp tongue. In a speech to State Department
officials, early in July, he likened the Department
to a medieval principality torn apart by rival
barons: referred to Williams as the Duke of
Michigan and Stevenson as the Grand Seigneur
of New York; and called the United Nations, the
Department of Public Emotion. The President
was not amused.
Against that background, Secretary Rusk began
to come to the fore on the Berlin issue. He had
at all times considered that a negotiated settle-
ment was possible, but only after a position of
strength had been established. Thus up until the
President's speech to the nation on July 25, mili-
tary moves— notably the increase in Army man-
power—seemed to dominate the approach to the
Berlin question. Thereafter Rusk increasingly
took charge. He brought into the Departmental
team working on Berlin some of State's ablest
younger men. He himself devoted to Berlin
about forty hours a week— half his working time.
He personally handled negotiations with British,
French, and West German diplomats. He per-
sonally soimded Gromyko at the United Nations.
Repeatedly, he plugged the theme of negotiations
in public: in one seven-day stretch, for example,
the first page of the Nno York Times six times
carried headlines setting out the Secretary's hope
for a negotiated settlement. And throughout
this period. Rusk was at the White House almost
as much as at the State Department. Several
times a day he was on the phone to the President.
"They are working," one State Department of-
ficial commented, "with an air of easy assurance."
By a clear margin, in short. Dean Rusk had
emerged as the President's principal adviser on
foreign policy.
To be sure, State's handling of the Berlin
issue has been severely criticized— by Walter
Lippmann among others. But to those criticisms
very sharp rejoinder can be made, though this is
not the place for it. And at the least, even the
critics implicitly concede that it is State— not
some other agency— that has been handling
Berlin.
What remains in question is whether State's
late-summer rally will be more than a flash in
the pan. There is continuing talk of adminis-
trative change at State, and in September a
special study group was established "to survey
Department of State organizational problems."
A large-scale study of personnel needs is also
under way. But most of the conditions respon-
sible for past weaknesses are still present; and
so are many of the people. It is still true, as the
President's shief administrative officer, David Bell,
told a Senate subcommittee in August, that: "It is
an enormous task to infuse the State Department
with the ability and attitude to do the kind of im-
aginative, accurate sizing up of situations and
preparing of recommendations Avhich is needed."
And reform of the Department, because of its
staggering load of daily responsibilities, must
necessarily proceed slowly. As a former Cabinet
officer once put it: "It is like performing an
appendicitis operation on a man carrying a piano
upstairs."
RIVAL by Phyllis Rose
SHE rules you now, her darkness shining fair
Under your hands, her serene world mapped bright
To your questions, most marvelous and rare
Woman. I am struck dumb. I know I might
Never approach her excellence, nor come
To that fine pride of body, never give
Soft answer to your bitter need. The sum
Of all my worth is nothing, relative
To her— pallid beside her richness, bound
Where she is free, cold near her candid fire.
Sometimes you comp to me, yet I am found
Wanting where she is full. .Always desire,
FalHng through fear to diffidence, fails, and I
Resign my right. Will anyone believe
You f hose mc also? None will identify
Your love and me, or know that 1 could grieve.
Harper's Magazine, November 1961
HOWARD
UNIVERSITY
campus and cause
MILTON VIORST
WALK north from Pennsylvania Avenue
through the pulsating heart of Washing-
ton's Negro world. Climb halfway up the hill
that lies beyond the ball park and turn about.
If your eyes are level with the dome of the
Capitol and the top of the Washington Monu-
ment, if you see Virginia in the distance, then
you've arrived at the gate of Howard University.
The quadrangles of old brick buildings, with
new ones scattered nearby, resemble a dozen
American colleges. Students scurry back and
forth, looking intense or friendly or preoccupied.
Freshmen heads are topped with beanies. The
co-eds wear styles taken from Mademoiselle.
When night falls, they go to rock 'n' roll parties,
work late at the library, or hear some prominent
lecturer in a campus auditorium. Except that
almost all of them are Negroes, they seem like
college students anywhere.
But Howard's look of ivy-covered normality
is deceptive. These young people have something
special on their minds. They know that the
color of their skin sets them apart. At the same
time, they are filled with the sense of a changing
destiny.
"I'm in clinical psychology," said a pretty
North Carolina girl as she sipped from a milk
container in the college cafeteria. "A few years
ago, Negroes hardly knew this field existed.
Teaching was about the only career open to
them, usually in Negro schools. Or maybe the
boys could become doctors or lawyers, but only
with Negro patients and clients.
"There's still no place in the South for a
Negro in my field. The same goes for my boy
friend, who's studying architecture. What could
he do in Mississippi? So we're going North when
we graduate. We'd like to stay near our families.
But there's no room for us at home."
This is the kind of dilemma that sets the
Negro student apart. It helps make Howard not
only a college but a cause. On its campus is
focused the American Negro's twentieth-century
battle for emancipation. The sounds of this
battle, audible around the world, make Howard
a symbol to peoples, particularly in Africa, who
are fighting for human equality.
In recent years. Tubman of Liberia, Toure of
Guinea, Nkrumah of Ghana, and Haile Selassie
of Ethiopia have all made calls to Howard to
pay respects. The late Patrice Lumumba, on his
hurried visit to Washington during the 1960
Congo crisis, insisted on seeing Howard. He
called it "the pride of the black race." To
Africans, Howard represents, as the world's great-
est Negro university, a tangible demonstration
of what Negroes can achieve.
But the 7,200 students at Howard, two-thirds of
them undergraduates and more than a tenth from
abroad, need no flattery to recognize that the uni-
versity has a special place in the scheme of things.
52
HOWARD UNIVERSITY
They see it as the creator and the mirror of change
in the Negro community. Take, for instance, the
engineering school. When it was founded in
1910, it offered the first engineering training
freely open to Negroes. Its facilities were meager
and its accreditation was never secure. Until the
eve of World War II, it never had more than a
few dozen students. Not many young Negroes
could believe, with only a handful of successful
Negro engineers in the nation, that there was
hope of a career in engineering. Year after year,
school officials made recruiting forays' into the
South but applications for admission remained
scarce.
In 1939, a far-sighted dean proposed building
an engineering school large enough for 125 stu-
dents. The idea seemed like folly. The war put
an end to the discussion but while the plans
gathered dust, industry and the armed forces
were introducing Negroes to technology. Howard
itself, at the request of the U. S. Office of Educa-
tion, established intensive night courses in the
sciences to train men for war work. At first,
Negroes held back. But as word spread that jobs
were actually available to them, enrollment grew.
By the end of the war, Negroes flocked to class.
"When the plans for the new engineering build-
ing were examined shortly afterward, they were
totally out of date. Negro applicants for admis-
sion exceeded every previous forecast. A new
engineering center was built, not for 125 students
but for 500. Still, it has not been large enough.
The school has had to hold down enrollment to
keep from stretching its resources too thin.
In 1949, the American Institute of Electrical
Engineers gave its stamp of approval by authoriz-
ing establishment of a student chapter at* How-
ard. More gestures of recognition from the
profession followed. In 1959, Dean Lewis K.
Downing became the first Negro named to the
executive committee of the American Society for
Engineering Education. It was another "first"
for Howard to add to a list that ranges from the
many triumphs of Ralph Bunche, a former
faculty member, to the success of a young gradu-
ate student in desegregating the ladies' room at
a Baltimore welfare agency. Large and small,
these are the milestones on the road to a new
As a reporter in Washinf^lon for the last five
years. Milton Viorst has covered many activities at
Howard University, incliidinf^ the visits of African
dif^nitaries. Now the Washington correspondent of
the New York "Post'' he has been a Fulhripht
Scholar in France and has served in Korea with the
U.S. Air Force.
world which Howard has done much to create.
Right from its beginning, Howard has been
dedicated to the notion that education was
the Negro's chief weapon in the struggle for
racial equality. Its founders, a group of Con-
gregationalist churchmen financed by Northern
philanthropists, w^ere dedicated to the oblitera-
tion of race consciousness. Although Howard
was meant for Negroes, the charter they drew up
in 1867 does not mention race. Howard's first
graduates were the children of white faculty
members. The university has had as few as one-
half of one per cent of white students in 1940,
but it has always resisted efforts, sometimes well-
intentioned, to make it legally segregated. How-
ard people today insist on calling the university
"predominantly Negro," rather than Negro. This
is not the rejection of a stigma but an expression
of a long-sustained commitment to racial integra-
tion and equality.
This commitmerrt has given Howard an orien-
tation toward the liberal arts, despite pressure
for a more utilitarian curriculum. In the years
when Booker T. Washington was belittling the
value of liberal education for Negroes, Howard
flirted with vocational training. But by World
War I, it had reasserted once and for all the
dedication to the well-trained mind that its
founders imparted to it.
dixie's stepchild
WHAT its founders failed to impart was
a sound financial base. Within a dec-
ade, Howard was on the point of collapse.
In 1879, its leaders turned in desperation to
Congress. They argued that the federal govern-
ment, in creating the Freedmen's Bureau to aid
emancipated slaves, had helped set up Howard;
when the Bureau was abolished the university
was crippled. Congress responded with an un-
precedented apj^ropriation for .SI 0,000. It was
a small sum but it created a unique relationship
between the university and the federal govern-
ment. Each year since. Congress has made a
direct appropriation to Howard, known famil-
iarly on campus as "conscience money." These
sums have made Howard, in a real sense,
America's only "national university."
Howard did not, however, become a federal
agency. It retained its own self-perpetuating
board of trustees and an independent administra-
tion. The power of the purse, to be sure, gave
Congressmen a wedge to interfere. Representative
James F. Byrnes of South Carolina, later Supreme
Court justice and Secretary of State, frequently
•"v^^aeiP"
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GENERAL
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ST. LUKE 2
-.uideourfeet-ntotheway^^^^
80 Andthech.ldgre ^ ^^^^,,3
strong .n ^P'^j^'f/hewTng unto Israel,
till the day of his shewing
CHAPTER 2
And i. came to pass in those d;y^
A .ha. .here wen. ou. - ^ee'-ee
Caesar Augus.us. .ha. all
^11t^;:HTt,nSwas«.s.^n,ade
-•'rA'ni":er.^o'';:".axed. every
one into his own c..y^ ^_.„„
" ^"^ 'r^o'f hfci.y o Na'zareth,
Galilee, out of 'he ^i.y . jj
'rch"s'::ne;Bth!ehemr(becausehe
whicn IS caiieu 1. ^ linpiee of David:)
-rr^be^ -ed"w:;rX.. his es-
Tti'i:; " wisn.: wht'fhey
weretht,rh:days;ereacco„,plished.
-;rr't?u.rr:rfH>e.firs.-
ger; because there was no room for
them in the inn.
8 And there were in the same coun-
try shepherds abiding in the field, keep-
ing watch over their flock by night.
9 And, lo, the angel of the Lord
came upon them, and the glory ot the
Lord shone round about them: and
they were sore afraid.
10 And the angel said unto them,
Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good
tidings of great joy, which shall be to
all people. .
1 1 For unto you is born this day m
the city of David a Saviour, which is
Christ the Lord.
12 And this 5W//^£' a sign unto you
Ye shall find the babe wrapped '"
swaddling clothes, lying m a mange ^
13 And suddenly there was with the
The
Birtfj
angel a multitude of the h
0/
praising God, and saying^^^^niy.
14 Glory to God in the h
on earth peace, good wJH to'^^^^l
15 Anditcameton;ic. ^^^d'J
15 And It came to pass
were gone away frorri
heaven, the shepherds
another. Let us now
Bethlehem, and see th
said
go
^'^thinp '^ Ui
come to pass, which the iK\
made known unto us. ■"d u
16 And they came with h
found Mary, and Josenh uJ\^^^^ ■
lying in a manger. ^ 'nej^.
17 And when they had se
made known abroad the say^'^ "-th
was told them concerning th'^^Hi
18 And all they that hea^ ^H
dered at those things which " ^c
them by the shepherds. ^^""eic
19 But Mary kept all thes
and pondered them in her he ^ ^S
20 And the shepherds r^^'
glorifying and praising God fn^^^le
things that they had heard a "l
as it was told unto them. ^^ ^\
21 And when eight days '
complished for the circumcisj^^^^ ^
child, his name was called ^f^^M
which was so named of the ^^^''
fore he was conceived in the '^^^' ^
22 And when the days of h°^^'
fication according to the law of x '^^
were accomplished, they brou k ^
to Jerusalem, to present/2/W7 to th*^
23 (As it is written in the Ia,^^°^
Lord, Every male that
the laxv
Oft
womb shall be called holy to thg^t^ '
24 And to offer a sacrifice ac
to that which is said in the law^^^'
Lord, A pair of turtledoves ^^'
young pigt«j"3- ^'
25 And, behold, there was a
Jerusalem, whose name wq^ ^^^,
and the same man was]\xsi and d^^"
waiting for the consolation of |^5
78
In this h/ippy, hurried sc
ness of (Christmas is soniu.n.
and fradfrctry, onr^ frift sh
1 1 !:
i.y
'eatest gift of all
hright-
ff^iitter
IS the
greatest of all... the Holy Bible. To a friend, to
a family, no other gift speaks so eloquently of
your love and respect. □ When you choose a
fiildhood of Christ
,d the Holy Ghost was upon him
26 And It was revealed unto him hv
^ Holy Ghost, that he Should noT see
;ath, before he had seen the Lord's
ifist.
27 And he came by the Spirit into
^ temple: and when the parents
^yght in the child Jesus, to do for
,^ after the custom of the law
28 Then took he him up in his' arms
,d blessed God, and said,
29 Lord, now lettest thou thy ser-
^nt depart in peace, according to thy
Drd:
30 For mine eyes have seen thy
[vation,
31 Which thou hast prepared be-
j-e the face of all people;
32 A light to lighten the Gentiles
id the glory of thy people Israel. '
33 And Joseph and his mother mar-
•lled at those things which were
,oken of him.
34 And Simeon blessed them, and
Id unto Mary his mother, Behold
'is child is set for the fall and rising
rain of many in Israel; and for a sign
hich shall be spoken against;
35 (Yea, a sword shall pierce through
y own soul also), that the thoughts
'many hearts may be revealed.
36 And there was one Anna, a
cophetess, the daughter of Phanuel,
f the tribe of Aser: she was of a great
ge, and had lived with an husband
c'ven years from her virginity;
37 And she was a widow of about
.)urscore and four years, which de-
arted not from the temple, but served
■od with fastings and prayers night
nd day.
38 And she coming in that instant
ave thanks likewise unto the Lord,
nd spake of him to all them that
joked for redemption in Jerusalem.
39 And when they had performed
|11 things according to the law of the
Lo ^^' ^^^^ ^
th^'e'r 01^'^;,;'';:;"^^ into Gal.lee, to
^0 And the ^h.d''' i
and the grace of r!? ^'^"^ ^visdom:
^1 Nol hfs nar^^f "^^ -P-n him. .
1^- every year ^^rrelTonn""^^-
over. 'east of the pass-
the custom 0?,:='^° ."'"''" ^''"
tarried behind ir. ' "^ ^"''a Jesus
JO"mey; and they souehTl "=' '
'hey tred\t;t:^l-"<', h- not,
seeking him ^'"" '° -"""salem,
three Xs"\h:rfr^ri'"'^'»f'"
doctors, both hearing them, and ask
■ng them questions.
47 And all that heard him were
TntTr^.^" " ^'^ ^derstandlllgTn'^
48 And when they saw him thev
were amazed and his mother sa"d in ^
him Son, why hast thou thus dealt
with us? behold, thy father and 1 hav
sought thee sorrowing.
49 And he said unto them. How is
It that ye sought me? wist ye not that I
must be about my Father's business?
:)U And they understood not the
saying which he spake unto them.
51 And he went down with them
and came to Nazareth, and was subject
unto them: but his mother kept all
these sayings in her heart.
52 And Jesus increased in wisdom
and stature, and in favour with God
and man.
79
^^W(
h today, chances are it will he printed on an
eh^r^- new kind of paper— a whiter, almost
less paper that will stay fresh, white and
we
easy to read from one generation to the next.
Olin developed that paper. We are proud to
he part of your Christmas, part of your giving.
:#
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L L U I S T R I B U T O U S I OK' Till iJ ?;■ /^
BY MILTON VIORST
57
threatened to cut the appropriation in retalia-
tion for some liberal racial view expressed on the
Howard campus. Other Sotitherners engaged in
similar harassment. But such attacks were
sporadic and were rarely successhd. The Con-
gressional majority as well as the board of
trustees, composed historically of Northern white
liberals and distinguished Southern Negroes,
have defended the university's freedom. In the
long view, it is perhaps less surprising that Con-
gress sometimes meddled than that it more often
paid its money and left the college alone.
Howard has. in fact, been far less threatened
by racists than by economic conservatives. The
Eisenhower Administration, for example, was not
unsympathetic but sought to reduce the univer-
sity budget for reasons of economv. Tn 195.S,
Howard's friends, including many from the
South, had to rally to save its building programs
from the budget axe.
Howard coimts among its friends a large num-
ber of Southerners, including many declared foes
of civil rights. As woidd be expected. Northern
liberals have been its most loyal supporters. But
their hclj) alone would be insufficient. Howard
is also backed by the Southern delegations to
Congress, whose members occupy the key places
on appropriations committees. Southerners have
taken a kindly view of Howard because it has
pro\ided the higher education for Negroes
not available to them at home. Onlv a handful
of Negro colleges, notably Fisk, Talladega, and
Atlanta, and a single medical school, Afeharry,
offer to Negroes opportunities com]:)ara1)le to
Howard's. Southern legislators are well aware
that a Negro who can go to its law or engineer-
ing school is less likely to pound on the doors of
the state-supported white schools. The fact that
more than three-fourths of Howard's stvidents
are from the South gives its officials a powerful
argument in pleading for more federal funds.
If one of its schools is threatened with loss of
accreditation for lack of laboratories or libraries
or dormitories, many more Negro students would
begin looking for accredited institutions in the
South. By siphoning off the restless top layer
of the South's Negro students, Howard helped
delay the crisis which has now come to a head
from Texas to Virginia. For this, Southerners
have been grateful. The small annual appropria-
tion, out of taxes collected from the entire na-
tion, has been a reasonable enough price to pay.
This is not to say that Negro students neces-
sarily choose Howard with any reluctance. Even
when welcome at "white" universities, both
Northern and Southern youths have preferred it.
An attractive Negro girl from New York explains
it this way:
"Some of my friends go to colleges where
there are only a few Negroes. They have no
sociid life, no outlet. They definitely lose some-
thing. I feel a little sorry for them."
An admissions officer put it somewhat differ-
ently. "Mothers tell me, 'I'm sending my daugh-
ter to Howard because of the nice boys in the
medical school, the law school, and the engineer-
ing school. If I send her to a white college, she'll
lose the most important contacts of her life.' "
"Let's face it," said a Virginia co-ed, "you
make your close friends at college. Maybe I'll
miss something by not knowing whites better.
But I'll live all my life with Negroes and I'd
like to make my friends at the best Negro
college."
TOWARD EXCELLENCE
HO W A R D is acknowledged to be the best,
the elite Negro college, yet not a great
imiversity. For its first half-century, it was
scarcely more than an exalted secondary school,
with an assortment of inferior graduate schools.
Lack of money was only part of the trouble.
More of a handicap was the impoverished early
education of its students. Howard had to teach
most of them to read and write before it could
teach them chemistry or art appreciation. Its
graduate schools were burdened with the yield of
Southern Negro institutions that rated as col-
leges only by the loosest definition. Certifying
boards applied this definition to accredit many
of them, because its graduates were certain not
to cross into white society. But Northern gradu-
ate schools paid them no heed. Occasionally a
student would be admitted in the North, but
only after the most rigorous scrutiny had dis-
closed that he could overcome his imdergraduate
deficiencies. Howard could make no such de-
mands. Tacitly it had to concede its inferiority
and make the best of it.
By the 1920s, however, the impact of three
generations of free Negroes was beginning to be
felt. Howard alone had graduated some 12,000
students, most of whom returned to the South to
teach. Each generation, handicapped though it
was, helped along the next. World War I brought
down the first important racial barriers and
kindled hopes of destroying others.
At this juncture the board of trustees chose
an eloquent young preacher from Charleston,
West Virginia, as Howard's new leader. Mordecai
W. Johnson, at thirty-six, was the university's
58
HOWARD UNIVERSITY
first Negro president and the first born in the
South. A graduate of Morehouse, one of the
better Southern Negro colleges, he went on for
more prestigious degrees at Chicago, Rochester,
and Howard. He was a dominating man and an
oratorical spellbinder, with the courtly style of a
Southern gentleman. His cadences were Biblical,
his phrases embellished with Christian verities.
But beneath the stately exterior, he was tough.
He had big ideas about what he wanted for
Howard and he knew how to threaten, cajole,
flatter, and persuade to get it.
As his first task, he challenged the old ad-
ministrators who were content to keep Howard
small, cliquish, and inferior. After a bitter battle,
he ran them off the campus. Then he headed
for Capitol Hill. There he made an alliance
with Representative Louis C. Cramton of
Michigan, who pushed through Congress a l:)ill
changing Howard's annual appropriation from
a gift without legal standing to a statutory
budget item. The two men then persuaded the
Hoover Administration to call a series of round-
table conferences with leaders in Congress and
private philanthropy. From them emerged an
agreement for the federal government to ap-
propriate Sl.l million a year for ten years, to
which the private foundations would add one-
third as much.
This pact provided the basis for a modern
university. By the beginning of World War II,
seven new dormitories had been built, as well as
a new library, chemistry building, classroom
center, and power plant. After the war, although
there was no renewal of the formal commitment,
federal support was increased, making possible
a new engineering school, buildings for law% den-
tistry, pharmacy, biology, and administration,
new dormitories, a theatre, and an enlargement
of the medical school. Last year, the federal
contribution rose to $4.6 million. The pattern
established in recent years gives the government
responsibility for construction costs and half the
operating budget. Howard must pay the rest
from income.
Johnson has been criticized, particularly by
his own faculty, for emphasizing buildings at the
expense of teaching and research. He was ac-
cused, especially in his later years, of confusing
Biblical homilies with the pursuit of truth. He
was charged with being narrow-minded and
tyrannical.
"Mordecai liked to exalt the intellect in his
addresses to the students," one angry professor
commented, "but he destroyed morale in the
faculty. He regarded Howard ;is his fief from
top to bottom. On the campus, 'academic free-
dom' meant submission to his ideas, no matter
how wrong they were."
Rarely were such charges made public because
Johnson was capable of ruthless reprisals. More
than one faculty member who incurred his wrath
was permanently denied promotion. A few were
hounded into resigning. Many suffered from
public display of Johnson's temper. In his last
years, the university chafed.
The fact remains, however, that when Johnson
inherited Howard, only one of its eight divisions
was accredited. During his administration, an in-
dependent graduate school and a school of
social work were founded. The quality of the
ten divisions is uneven. A few are excellent, some
no more than mediocre. But all are fully ac-
credited.
Under Johnson's leadership the number of
Ph.D.s on the faculty rose from almost none to
an impressive 40 per cent. Scholars like Franklin
Frazier in sociology, Rayford Logan in history,
and Herman Bransom in physics achieved na-
tional recognition. Papers by Howard professors
began appearing in scholarly publications and
the university founded three journals of its own.
Eighteen honor societies, including Phi Beta
Kappa, have established chapters on campus.
The master's degree program was expanded and
a limited doctoral program set up in the sciences,
the only field in which the university could be
certain of continued large-scale support. Howard
seniors are now regularly admitted by the best
graduate schools and some have made remark-
able records in advanced work.
The Johnson years were the years when the
civil-rights movement was gaining momentum.
With the imiversity's future so much at the
mercy of politicians, Johnson could have exer-
cised his iron rule to steer Howard clear of the
tumultuous struggle. But instead, he chose to
make Howard lead. His statements on civil
rights, though judiciously veiled in scriptural
prose, were unequivocal. More than once, he
rejected demands from racists in Congress that
he desist or resign. Although he did not person-
ally participate in the court battles, demonstra-
tions, and political maneuvers of the civil-rights
struggle, he set the tone for those who did.
FINDING FLAWS IN LAWS
TH E intellectual center of this battle, since
post-Reconstruction days, has been the
Howard Law School. Here hundreds of discrimi-
nation cases were studied and dissected. The
BY MILTON VIORST
59
school was without accreditation until 1931, but
its students were offered the country's first civil-
rights course and, in its library, the country's
most complete documentation on the subject.
Howard brought civil rights into its own as a
field in American jurisprudence.
A young law student in the mid-1 930s could
not miss the intoxication. Charles H. Houston,
its director, was a great lawyer for the National
Association for the Advancement of Colored
People. He and his two closest associates, William
H. Hastie and James M. Nabrit, Jr., went into
every area: suffrage, transportation, education,
employment. Where the law had flaws, they
were determined to find them. They inspired a
mood of confidence and attack.
In the Howard law library, lawyers met to
prepare arguments and write briefs. They called
for advice from the law-school faculty and from
the university's sociologists, political scientists,
and education experts. When landmark cases like
Gaines xjs. Canada, which struck at segregated
education, or Lane ns. Wilson, which challenged
voting restrictions, were scheduled, the entire
school was mobilized for a "dry run," to listen
and to criticize arguments. On trial days, the
school virtually adjourned to the spectator's
bciu hcs downtown in the Supreme Court.
Each year the law school fed its graduates into
the (ivil-rights struggle, waged from obscure
local tribunals to the highest court. Men like
Thurgood Marshall, Oliver W. Hill. Spottswood
Robinson III, and Robert L. Carter, all of whom
contributed to the Supreme Court's 1954 desegre-
gation decision, made such reputations that
Howard became known as the "^Vest Point of
the NAACP." After Houston retired and Hastie
became the first Negro appointed to the United
States Court of Appeals, James Nabrit, the last of
the veterans of the early days, became head of
the law school. In June 1960, he succeeded
Mordecai Johnson as president of Howard.
Nabrit's appointment delighted the faculty.
Long Johnson's assistant, he was never his dis-
ciple. In contrast to his erect and handsome
predecessor, he is a small man of unimposing
mien, given to somewhat flamboyant dress. His
manner is easy, almost shuffling, and he talks in
the slack drawl of his native Georgia. But he
has a vigorous mind and a deep devotion to
scholarship.
"I knew things had changed," one elderly
professor said, "when Jim sent through a memo-
randum stating that the faculty would lead the
academic procession at opening ceremonies last
fall. Mordecai always put administrators first."
Nabrit loves the classroom. He insists upon
calling himself a teacher, though in his twenty-
five years at Howard, he has spent a large part
of his time in administration. The first lay
president in eighty-seven years, he signals the end
of the pious orientation Howard inherited from
its missionary founders. The board of trustees
had to consider objections Congressmen might
make to his NAACP ties. But it chose him none-
theless as the man best qualified to give Howard
the final push in its long drive toward ex-
cellence.
But this drive, Nabrit cautions, cannot be con-
ducted at the expense of the very people it seeks
to serve. "The segregated system of life still
exists in the South, and to some extent in the
North. The university must still concentrate its
efforts on educational opportunities for handi-
capped Negro students," Nabrit said soon after
he took office. "We shall strive to train the intel-
lect of our students and to imbue them with an
acute social conscience. In this way, Howard will
become, more than ever, an articulate and sensi-
tive focal point in the civil-rights battle."
Nabrit believes that Howard may some day
outlive its usefulness as a "predominantly Negro
institution." But it will succeed in doing so only
by crushing segregation with the first-rate men of
letters, science, and the arts whom it trains.
These aspirations are made necessary, as
Nabrit sees it, by the new determination of
American Negro youth to make a place in a
world until now reserved for whites. The feeling
is manifested in picket lines and sit-ins, in -yvhich
Howard students have played a significant part,
and in mounting applications for admission.
Another index is the decline in fraternity mem-
bership at Howard from half the undergraduates
before ^Vorld ^Var II to about a tenth today.
"When I was a student here," a young profes-
sor remarked with pleasure, "fraternities and
sororities meant an awful lot. They were the big
prestige symbol. Now the only fraternity in
which students seem interested is Phi Beta
Kappa."
NOISIER, MORE AMBITIOUS
IN A sense, this new spirit makes Howard's
job more difficult. Its students, until quite
recently, were children of a tiny Negro aristoc-
racy. Within a poor and semiliterate society, they
were the best prepared for college. In contrast
the new students are not an elite group. The
halls are noisier since they arrived, an old pro-
fessor grumbled. But the ones who make the
60
HOWARD UNIVERSITY
noise, he added, are usually more intelligent,
more ambitious, and have greater potential than
their predecessors.
"Students with good marks get a lot of respect
here," said the editor of the school paper. "They,
not the athletes, hold the student offices. I think
that's because we all understand that we have
to be on top to make it. We know, for instance,
that if we are tied with a white applicant for a
job or a fellowship, we're not going to get it.
We've got to be better."
Howard, Nabrit believes, owes this generation
an extra effort to compensate for the training it
missed. He plans to multiply remedial programs
to make up for deficiencies in English, mathe-
matics, and the sciences. Otherwise, he knows,
they will be incapable of the first-rate work he
demands.
Nabrit has set his sights on increasing the
scholarship funds tenfold. The opulent days of
the GI Bill, which introduced many Negroes to
college, are over. Although Howard's tuition is
only about a third that of most private univer-
sities, few Negro families can afi:ord the heavy
costs of college life. The Kennedy Administra-
tion has promised Howard increasing support,
but the federal appropriation does not provide
for scholarships. To fill the gap, Nabrit believes,
Howard must raise an endowment that will yield
.15500,000 a year. This is no easy matter for a
college with few rich alumni. In recent years,
however, alumni gifts have been growing. As
Negro wealth increases, so undoubtedly will con-
tributions. Nabrit is well aware that Howard
cannot fulfill its mission if lack of money keeps
out the students it should serve.
RECRUITED BY THE NATION
THERE is a lesson in this. Thirty years
ago, Kwame Nkrumah, now president
of Ghana, and Nnamdi Azikiwe, governor gen-
eral of Nigeria, were turned away at Howard
because scholarships were unavailable. Both
wound up at Lincoln, a small Negro college in
Pennsylvania, one of the few that acknowledged
a bond between American and African Negroes.
Mordecai Johnson was slow to recognize this
bond. Like most American Negroes, struggling
for status in a white society, he was unenthusi-
astic about kinship with a continent known for
savages and colonial relationships. A few Afri-
cans attended Howard each year but until re-
cently, neither students nor administration were
very hospitable to them. Several Howard gradu-
ates now hold important posts in their native
countries. The university missed the opportunity,
however, to be counted a major influence in the
shaping of the new Africa.
But Howard's special assets in dealing with
nonwhite nations are too obvious to be over-
looked. The State Department goes to Howard
to find prominent Negroes for African missions,
as well as young recruits for the foreign service.
It exhibits Howard to visitors, particularly from
the colored nations, as an example of democracy.
It invites Nabrit to its social functions for
African dignitaries. It was he, last year, who
broadcast America's salute over the Voice of
.America when Nigeria became independent.
Howard now has the highest proportion of
foreign students in the nation. Of the 782 for-
eigners enrolled last year, more than half were
Negroes from the Caribbean and 91 were
Africans. But an increasing number of young
Asians and Arabs come to Howard. It had 128
students from ttje Far East and 132 from the
Middle East last year. Some nonwhites, sensitive
to any hint of segregation, deliberately stay away
from Howard. But most say they feel comfortable
there, free to pursue their studies, away from
the tensions of race consciousness. Nabrit, aware
of this asset, has ordered a stepped-up program
to attract foreign students and make them happy
at Howard. This year, the university expects
to enroll more than 900 foreigners from 60
countries.
For Africa, Howard is a magnet. Hardly a
week passes that Nabrit does not get requests for
Howard graduates to set up schools or practice
medicine or engineer roads in a new African
country. Both the State Department and the
foundations look to Howard to widen its African
studies program, which is only five years old, per-
haps to set up an African affairs center in Wash-
ington.
In the long view, however, Howard has as
much to gain from Africa as it gives. American
Negroes are making new identification with a
people that major powers once held in contempt
but now assiduously court. American Negroes
are exulting in Africa's triumphs. When Sekou
Toure talked to a Howard audience of the
special mission of "Negroes of all nationalities,"
when Lumumba asked Howard students "to
serve in the land of your ancestors," they struck
a responsive chord. The power of emerging
Africa assures American Negroes of a significant
place in the world community. It becomes a
powerful weapon against racial discrimination.
It charges Howard with a responsibility that is
not only domestic but global.
Harper's Magazine, November 1961
MORTON M. HUNT
PRIVATE EYE
TO INDUSTRY
Even the most hardened knaves seem to enjoy
confessing all to Norman Jaspan —
a specialist in the kind of crime that seldom
reaches either the police or the newspapers.
TH E intensive study of the corruptions of
the human soul seems to make most men
calloused, bitter, or at least weary. Not so Nor-
man Jaspan, a New York management consul-
tant, who lor the past twenty-seven years has
found th^ sjiectacle of man's greed and dis-
honesty endlessly fascinating, stimulating— and
profitable.
As president of Investigations, Inc., of 60 East
42nd Street, Jaspan usually has some 360 of his
employees deployed across the country in about
150 plants, stores, banks, brokerage houses,
mines, and hospitals belonging to his clients.
Their job is to find out what ails the business,
including how and why money and goods are
vanishing. Armed with their secret reports, Jas-
pan interrogates some two hundred thieves, em-
bezzlers, and assorted knaves in the course of a
year and wrings confessions out of them. For his
services, he collects fees of over $2 million annu-
ally. (His other and interlocking firm, Norman
Jaspan Associates, Inc., also grosses something
close to $2 million for management-engine'ering
work growing out of the investigations.)
At forty-four, Jaspan is a tall, well-tailored
man with a broad, elastic, busy face. He fre-
quently lectures on the dismal anatomy of the
soul, but far from sounding gloomy about it, he
is apt to speak with the grim joy of a latter-day
Cotton Mather. Describing a decadent depart-
ment store to a group of marketing executives
last winter, Jaspan raised his eyebrows in a cheer-
fully disillusioned look and said:
"So here you had a manager with a nice clean
operation, until he buys himself a house in the
suburbs and sends a couple of his store's main-
tenance men over to redo the interior for him.
He figures, what's a little company time and a
little company paint? But his employees get the
principle of the thing. A few years later, $200,000
worth of goods is disappearing in a twelve-month
period. He's a professor, this fellow— he gave
them a short course in dishonesty, and they all
graduated c\im Umde."
The executives chuckled, and Jaspan smacked
the lectern with the flat of his hand. "It means
that when you have dishonesty at the top, it
spreads downwards like a catching disease," he
trumpeted. "When we went intp that store,
Avhat do you think we foimd? The head receiv-
ing clerk has a little sideline in mattresses— he
signs for complete delivery of each order, but
leaves one of every ten on the truck, and the
driver slips him five bucks apiece. The restau-
rant manager is a real comparison shopper— he
shops around among the local food vendors un-
til he finds the ones who'll give him the best
cash kickbacks, which add up to a hundred and
fifty a month. In men's wear, there's a dried-up
spinster who should have been a mother— she
liked doing nice things for people. She figured
that after Christmas the haberdashery would be
marked way down, so since the store was rich
already, why not give the nicer customers the
savings right now?" The businessmen laughed,
galvanizing Jaspan into one final effort.
"She needed love!" he shouted, "so she bought
it a little at a time— with the store's merchan-
dise!"
Hrtfli
62
PRIVATE EYE TO INDUSTRY
The audience roared and Jaspan grinned with
the fierce satisfaction of one who has just hurled
an ink bottle at Satan.
Jaspan reacts with shocked fascination to the
infinite ingenuity of employees at devising origi-
nal forms of flimflam. Last year, studying the
ways in which gold was being "lost" from a
Western mine despite intensive checking, Jaspan
was filled with wonder at discovering that a group
of employees had been packaging the gold in
plastic capsules, flushing them down the toilet,
and recovering them from a trap they had in-
stalled in the waste line half-a-mile outside the
plant. Even more wonderful is thievery which
succeeds by utter simplicity. A small super-
market in Illinois was losing money, though rou-
tine audits of the books and the cash-register
tapes gave no clue as to why. Jaspan got an al-
most aesthetic thrill out of finding that the store
manager had lugged in his own private cash
register, installed it at one of the check-out
counters, and pocketed whatever he took in on
it, with an eye to his own planned retirement.
EMPLOYERS DOn't TALK
J\ S P A N ' S positive outlook on malfeasance
is fortunate, for he has witnessed a remark-
able increase in it during his adult years. Indeed,
most of us Americans are pretty well informed
about the public evidence of a national crime
increase— both in police statistics (which, accord-
ing to J. Edgar Hoover, show a rise in crime
four times that of the population in the postwar
years) and in the much publicized exposes of in-
fluence peddling in Washington, rigged television
quizzes, disk-jockey payola, political payoffs in
city halls, and big-labor and big-business scan-
dals. But impressive evidence also exists— though
little of it is well known— of mounting dishon-
esty by employees inside American businesses
and other private and public enterprises, such
as foundations and hospitals. Last year, for ex-
ample, fidelity insurance companies paid claims
for employee thefts and embezzlements over
three times as great as in 1945, and the total
filched by trusted employees, from charwoman
to chairman of the board, was between five and
seven hundred million dollars in cash and goods
-not including kickbacks, bribes, and theft of
company secrets-more than the amount taken
by all the robbers and burglars in the land.
All in all, a significant change would seem to
be taking place in the way American society im-
plements its ethics. In 1946, the anthropologist
Ruth Benedict sf)cculated that the United States
was ceasing to be a "guilt culture" (one in which
control of wrongdoing is self-imposed by means
of conscience) and becoming instead a "shame
culture" (one in which it is externally imposed
by means of public humiliation or punishment,
as in various Eastern cultures). Norman Jaspan
apparently believes in using— with discretion—
the Aveapons of both worlds, with emphasis on
the new. "I have faith that most human beings
are good," he told a client, "but that doesn't
mean you should tempt them. On the contrary,
you should install careful controls over them
and let them know it. It helps their sense of
right and wrong no end."
Today, the great bulk of stealing from the in-
side remains unknown to the public. For one
thing, much of it is undetected; for another,
nearly all that is found out is known only to
people like Jaspan, his clients, and the insur-
ance companies. On rare occasions an executive
will speak out, ^ did Joseph Hall, president of
Kroger Company, who said in 1958 that his em-
ployees were illegally taking home goods worth
$2.5 million. But such candor is rare. In the
private memos of most firms, such theft is ob-
scured behind terms like "inventory shrinkage"
or "finished goods variances," and even these
terms and figures are studiously omitted from
the public balance sheets. The reason is simple
enough: it does a company and its officers no
good with the stockholders to have such facts
bruited about. Jaspan, in consequence, has to
be close-mouthed about the identities of his past
and present clients— who have included over 180
firms listed on the New York Stock Exchange,
four major airlines, three world-wide hotel
chains, one of the three great automobile firms,
several federal agencies, a number of well-known
manufacturers, half-a-dozen major hospitals, one
of the biggest meat packers, a giant steel com-
pany, and about one out of every three large
department stores or store chains in the country.
Almost without exception, they prefer to have
Jaspan remain totally discreet. They want to
evaluate their own operations, locate and fire the
malefactors, use the evidence in some cases to
collect on insurance, and have Jaspan help re-
vamp their administrative methods to prevent
A free-lance writer for twelve years, Morton
M. Hunt specializes in reporting in the field of
behavioral sciences. He contributes regularly to
"The New Yorker" has written one book ("The
Natural History of Love," 1959), and is working on
another — about the American woman. He is mar-
Tied to the singer, Lois Hunt, and they have one son.
BY MORTON M. HUNT 63
further loss; but they are not often interested in
notifying the public prosecutors or in seeing that
justice is done. This in itself was once a crime;
common law made it illegal to know of a felony
and keep it secret. But current statutes are less
strict and, with few exceptions, do not actually
re(|uire the likes of Jaspan or his clients to turn
in information on felonies.
THE INTERROGATOR BEGINS
ON E of the largest firms of its kind in the
country, Investigations, Inc. uncovered in-
side dishonesty amounting to |60 million last
year, according to Jaspan's computation. Possi-
bly the greatest asset of the corporation is
Jaspan's gift of persuasive gab. Without using
physical restraint or weapons, and without even
threatening to call in the police or go to court,
he has personally managed over the years to
reason, cajole, cozen, and outwit about three
thousand larcenists, both petty and grand, into
confessing misdeeds ranging from snitching a
monkey wrench to milking over a million dollars
from a large chain-store warehouse by substitut-
ing cheapen' goods for more exj^cnsive ones.
After Jaspan's field representaii\cs have stud-
ied a company for some time, Jaspan himself
appears on the scene— he personally interrogates
about a third of the cases and eight of his senior
men take the rest— and sets himself up in an
office near the company premises.* A suspect-
it may be a leather-jacketed teen-aged shipping
clerk, a stylish middle-aged lady sweater buyer,
or a white-haired company treasurer— is brought
in by his superior and introduced to Jaspan, who
calls himself "Mr. Richards" or some similar
pseudonym.
"Good morning," he says crisply but affably.
"I'm here to assist your company in the prepara-
tion of an insurance claim. You might be able
to help me fill in some data." This, his standard
opening, might be called his Claims Adjuster
Gambit (Jaspan himself has no names for his
techniques) and is seemingly quite artless. "Some-
one's mislaid the fidelity bonding forms," says
Jaspan picking up a pencil, "so I'd like to get a
few details down. First, your name and address.
Is that a house or apartment? What's the rent?
Are you married? Have you children?" Smoothly
and implacably he moves along from easy ques-
* I have M'itnessed some of Jaspan's procedures and
have had the privilege of examining dossiers and con-
fessions in his files. 1 have, however, disguised the
identities of those wrongdoers who were not publicly
indicted or prosecuted.— M. M. H.
tions to touchier ones such as, "What do you
owe on the house? What are your other debts?
What do you spend per week on entertainment?"
Within five minutes he is blandly asking for
information about gambling habits, marital
irregularities, and miscellaneous peccadilloes.
Astonishingly enough, almost no one ever re-
fuses to answer.
"It's not so mysterious," Jaspan explained to
an assistant a while ago. "I start with easy ones
and keep on going, asking as if I had a right to.
If you're innocent, what do you care? And if
you're gtulty, at what point are you going to
get your back up? By the time the questions
get tough, you're afraid to make yourself look
bad by backing out."
Jaspan is now ready to adopt any one of a
number of tactical maneuvers. Each of them
calls for him to play a role— accuser, confessor,
friend, judge, sharp trader, or psychotherapist-
requiring considerable acting ability. It is no
coincidence that in his late teens he was a pas-
sionate amateur actor, and performed in fund-
raising shows put on by the Brooklyn Junior
Federation of Jewish Charities; one unforget-
table night he even played a lead opposite Myrna
Loy in "Waiting for Lefty." At that point, his
parents sternly directed him away from the stage,
but his acting today earns him S250 a day (his
personal fee as interrogator).
The most useful of his roles might be called
The Impersonal Physician, a character who re-
fuses to be revolted by the loathsome diseases
he sees before him. "I'd like to explain some-
thing to you," Jaspan will say, laying down his
pencil. "Inventory losses are my business, and
I look at them as nothing but business; I have
no emotions about them, I don't represent the
police or the FBI, I don't break up any families,
I don't try to pass judgment on anybody for
what he's done. I don't have to. All I want is
a peaceful acknowledgment, so that a claim can
be paid and no one goes to court. You follow
me?" This seemingly simple statement actually
(1) promises an almost psychoanalytic freedom
from disapproval, (2) alludes to arrest and trial
while seeming to disclaim them, and (.S) subtly
implies that Jaspan pretty much knows what had
been going on, anyhow.
In a few cases, this speech alone produces the
first mumbled admission. Most people, how-
ever, stolidly say they don't know why he's talk-
ing like that. If the suspect is a woman, Jaspan
may at this point turn both saccharine and sar-
castic: "Now, before I go any further, I want
you to have a good cry. Yes, I ivcmt you to cry!
64
PRIVATE EYE TO INDUSTRY
Get it out of your system! But the minute we
start to talk, let's make it man to man. One lie,
and I'm going to walk out on you. Right out
that door! So do your crying now, and then let's
talk business." When this treatment produces
the requested tears, the confession is imminent.
With males, Jaspan may choose instead to
switch to a turn one might call We Worldly
Men. "All right," he will say, his face crink-
ling into a knowing smile, "enough of this fenc-
ing. We're both grown-up men of the world,
you and I. We know how common these things
are. It's life! It's business! So, let's admit it.
You're a gentleman, and I am going to treat you
like one. But if you don't level with me, I'm
going to lose all respect for you! I'm going to
figure you for a small person." This approach
is best suited to the well-dressed embezzler; with
the lower-echelon male, Jaspan may prefer to
try the role of Understanding Pal. "Look
here," he will say, "I can imagine what you've
been through recently. I've looked into your situ-
ation—they work you like a dog six days a week
for a hundred and five bucks, they load all the
responsibility on you, and they don't even give
you any credit for what you accomplish. And
that boss of yours— I don't know how you stayed
with him this long."
"Listen. I've been begging for a transfer for
months!" the suspect blurts out.
"I know, I know!" cries Jaspan.
If these and other preliminary feints fail to
bring the employee to terms, at least they sorely
worry him; he desperately wants to know how
much Jaspan already knows about him. Jaspan
therefore adroitly suggests that he find out, via
the Numbers Game. At Mount Sinai Hospital,
for example, Jaspan recently played this game
with Mr. J. Louis Read, director of food services,
whose cost of feeding the average patient had,
for no apparent reason, gone up 82 per cent
over a period of several years.
As Jaspan recalls the scene, he said, after an
hour of skirmishing, "Read, maybe you didn't
realize it, but when any food vendor does you
a favor, no matter how big or small, he writes
it down so as to deduct it as sales expense."
Read said nothing to the implication that Jas-
pan knew all. "I'd like to level with you, and I
expect you to level with me," said Jaspan. "I'm
going out for coffee now. While I'm out, I want
you to take this pad and write down the names
of just half-a-dozen of your major vendors, and
the value of whatever favors each has done for
you recently. When you get through, I am go-
ing to compare numbers with you." In actual
fact, Jaspan had no numbers whatever, but Read,
alone with his own thoughts, started with a few
jottings and ended with a schedule of regular
kickbacks adding up to $75,000 in the past sev-
eral years.
A FEW SECRET FACTS
FOR THE DOSSIER
AKIN to this attack is the Dossier En-
circlement, the chief offensive tactic in
Jaspan's procedure; he uses it, in brief or ex-
tended form, on all but the easily crumpled foe.
Some months ago, for example, Jaspan was in-
terrogating a topnotch research chemist in an
effort to locate the leak through which a drug
company's secret discoveries were reaching its
major competitor. Having failed to ruffle the
man's composure, Jaspan at last fished around
in his dispatch case and flopped a thick blue
loose-leaf folder on the desk. The scene then
proceeded like this:
Jaspan (breaking into a mysterious smile): You
have a television set? Ever watch "This Is Your Life"?
Chemist: I've seen it once or twice.
Jaspan: Fine, fine. Know what this folder is? Well,
this is your life. (He thumbs through the pages, and
almost lets the chemist see a word here and there.)
Sixty-five pages typed— and all about you.
Chemist (pretending amusement): Really?
Jaspan: Want to know what's in it? I'm going to
let you read it in a little while, but first I want you
to tell me what you think is in it.
Chemist: I wouldn't have the faintest idea.
Jaspan: I think you would. And I know why
you're hesitating. It's not going to be easy for you.
(Jaspan now adds an Appeal to Conscience for double
impact.) I don't care what your religion is, but I
know that there won't be any peace or satisfaction for
you if you don't tell me freely what's in this book
before I show it to you. When we get through you
might feel miserable and ashamed— but that'll give
you real relief. As for me, the only time I go home
feeling rotten is when some cold-blooded bastard
won't give, and I can see it's going to get messy for
his family.
Chemist: Go on . . . go on. . . .
Jaspan (opening the dossier and flipping through
it, puffing his pipe thoughtftdly): Mm . . . mm . . .
hm! . . . (He looks up.) You have any idea how we
know so much about you? This is a scientific age,
my friend, an age of electronics. Did you know it's
possible to pick up phone conversations from half-
a-mile outside a man's home without even tapping
his line? (Jaspan actually knows only that the chemist
has called certain California numbers but not xohat
he has talked about.) By the way, how's Professor S—
in San Francisco?
Chemist: Oh my God!
Jaspan (slamming the dossier down): All right, now,
let's level with each other.
BY MORTON M. HUNT
65
The dossier itself is no fake, though it con-
tains less than Jaspan intimates. Jaspan, for
all his powers of persuasion, usually needs at
least a few hard secret facts to pry loose the
rest. He and his chief aides in his thirteen field
offices hire bright young men with fresh degrees
from business and engineering schools, calling
them formally "junior management engineers,"
or more familiarly "operators," plus some female
operators, and a few specialists such as electri-
cians and machinists. He then arranges with the
president of a client company to tip him off when
to send a few of the boys to the hiring offices;
if all goes well, at least one Jaspan operator
snags the available job and secrecy is preserved.
To build and maintain a successful "cover"
story calls for planning and discipline; it takes
some doing for a lad just out of Harvard Busi-
ness School to act the part of restaurant busboy
without spilling the beans. An operator must
wear clothes appropriate to his station, perhaps
live in a dreary furnished room, and spend eve-
nings with his fellow employees at the bowling
alley though he might prefer to be home listen-
ing to the Missa Solemnis.
Sometimes Jaspan can place a man in a good
administrative job, but frequently the operator
is likely to be something lowly— say an elevator
operator or a porter. "You can do a marvelous
job of management engineering as a porter,"
Jaspan says with gusto. "A porter isn't super-
vised much. He moves around all the time, he
talks to everybody and sees what's going on.
Within a matter of days he'll know who's feather-
bedding, see machines shut down unnecessarily,
see some guy carrying a package out and wink-
ing at the guard, sneak a look at a letter on
the buyer's desk. After he's been there three
months, we'll be able to move in and start clean-
ing things up."
Many management consultants prefer to come
in openly, correctly identified as time-and-motion
analysts, or as auditors, or as materials-handling
engineers. In Jaspan's opinion, such people see
what the forewarned employees want them to
see, whereas his operators learn all sorts of things
and under the oddest circumstances Many a case
has been broken, for example, by something over-
heard in the men's room.
In his promotion literature, Jaspan likes to
say that in most businesses there is a "lack of
communication" between officers and their em-
ployees, which frequently allows dishonesty to
exist. Addressing a seminar of the American
Management Association in the Astor Hotel last
fall, he put it more bluntly. "So you hire a
crackerjack bunch of security guards and put
them in uniforms, with shiny badges. So what?
They're like the belled cat— what mice are they
going to catch? My boys and girls, getting dirty
and sweaty if they have to, they see. They give
us the names, the clues, and the facts and then
we can go to work and extract the rest."
GETTING A CONFESSION
SUCH clues are compiled in the fat blue
dossiers— or Pre-Interrogations Reports— with
which Jaspan traps and belabors his suspects.
A few months ago he was interrogating a man we
can call Billingsley, the manager of an ailing
suburban branch of a Philadelphia department
store. Billingsley, a small, soft-spoken, wiry type,
was putting up a stout defense. In two hours
Jaspan had run through much of his repertoire,
without getting anything but soft, firm denials.
At last, he started the "This Is Your Life" speech,
and began flipping through the pages of the dos-
sier. The scene played like this:
Jaspan: You know, we don't rely just on the writ-
ten records. We have electronic ways of getting at
things nowadays. . . . On your books the shortages
are only about $120,000 over the last three years, but
we make them out to be $476,000. How about that?
Billingsley: I have nothing to hide, nothing to
hide. I never had shortages like that.
Jaspan: What do you think your year-over inven-
tory shrinkage was last year?
Billingsley: Oh . . . 5.6 per cent, as I recall.
Jaspan (flips open dossier, puffs pipe reflectively):
What would you say to 16.1 per cent?
Billingsley: Oh no! Oh, no!
Jaspan: Billingsley, I'm trying to help you. I want
you to quit defending yourself and admit reality.
Billingsley (dumfounded because the figure is
correct, but he thought no one could know; Jaspan,
however, had sent in sixteen men on a Sunday, with a
passkey, to count everything in the store): Not 16.1
per cent!
Jaspan: See that box in the corner? You know much
about tape-recordings? In a little while I'm going to
play back what you told your assistant manager in the
washroom on January fifth. I've got it in here, too.
(He opens the dossier and reads.) "Whenever you're
in doubt, count high and give me the break."
Billingsley (shaken): I might have said that, but
I didn't mean anything criminal by it.
Jaspan (pleadingly): Give a little, Billingsley, I'm
trying to help you! . . .
By the time Jaspan reached the "We're both
grown-up men" line, Billingsley broke. ("All
right, it helped my yearly bonus.") From this
first admission, Billingsley continued grudgingly
to talk for the next hour or so, after which he
wrote out a ten-page confession by hand and
signed it in the presence of a notary public. He
66
PRIVATE EYE TO INDUSTRY
never asked to hear the tape played back; this
was just as well, since the carton was empty, be-
ing only a prop of Jqspan's. When the four-
hour non-stop interrogation was at an end,
Jasixin, invigorated and full of pep, hurried off
to his own office, Avhile Billingsley tottered out,
limp and broken.
Most suspects, once they begin to open up,
become abject, self-accusing, and almost voluble.
The latter part of a successful interrogation by
Jaspan is a catharsis-giving experience, some-
times having characteristics of a religious con-
version. A middle-aged female cashier in a
social agency had been juggling the register so as
to pocket about SI 00 every day for the past seven
years from cash sales; on it she had lived hand-
somely, made investments, and supported a boy
friend. But when she broke under Jaspan's treat-
ment, she concluded with this typical statement:
I am bitterly ashamed of my misdeeds. It has given
me a great many sleepless nights. T asked myself a
thousand times why I was doing this, but I just
couldn't stop. I'm glad the end is lierc now.
One memorable confession even ended, "I thank
God for you, Mr. Jaspan."
DOES HE LOVE THE SINNER?
AFTER a confession has been signed and
notarized, Jaspan usually advises the in-
terrogee to come with him and make a personal
apology to the boss, intimating that it may gain
him some special consideration. (Actually, the
purpose is to act as a preventive to later changes
of heart.) Clients are usually astonished at the
way the suspects, after a few hours with Jaspan,
become meek, penitent, and ready to tell all.
Dr. Martin Steinberg, director of New York's
Mount Sinai Hospital, employed Jaspan in 1960,
and later told a friend in some astonishment,
"It was shocking and painful to see a fine well-
educated man come in, blurt out his misdeeds,
and all but beat his breast before me. Later,
when I thought about it as a physician, I saw
that psychologically it makes sense. A man be-
gins with a little chiseling, and inch by inch
works his way up to a pattern of living which he
enjoys but which rests on a morally loathsome
basis. Then Jaspan probes the sore, and sud-
denly the man wants to get rid of the stored-up
guilt all at once. The interrogation seems to
offer him a cheap, easy way to pay oflF. Jaspan
is really an expert practicing psychiatrist with-
out knowing it."
Among Jaspan's clients and friends there is
some diflerenre of opinion as to the sources of
his energ) and diligence at his work. Some who
have known Jaspan for many years believe that
his motives are humane; some feel his talk about
dishonesty and the need for prevention is "just
an expert piece of hard sell." A somewhat intro-
spective airline official has voiced even murkier
doubts. "Norman seems to me to be obsessively
fascinated by the conduct of the people he pur-
sues," he says. "Maybe even infected by it. He
makes me think of Inspector Javert in Les
Miserahles."
Be that as it may, in both talent and training
he is ideally fitted for his work. He was born in
Brooklyn in 1916, the son of Isaac A. Jaspan,
who was a bank examiner for a while and then
an officer of a credit clearinghouse; the business
talk young Jaspan overheard at home stuck with
him. After some preliminary experience as a
paper boy and messenger, he made his real com-
mercial debut at about twelve when he began
after-school door-to-door canvassing, selling a
variety of waxes, polishes, and cleansers. He
found commerce so delicious that he shortly
switched to night school, and during his teens
flitted from job to job, collecting experience like
a bee gathering honey.
At seventeen, he was living an exhilarating
life at an auto-finance company, deep in collat-
eral, accounts receivable, mechanics' liens, and
promissory notes. He also managed to find some
time for track, the high-school debating society,
amateur acting, dating, and several years of night
college at St. John's University in Brooklyn, but
none of these proved half so satisfying as the
handling of "bad paper"— promissory notes for
the purchase of autos, the signers of which had
disappeared.
Developing into an expert "skip-tracer," he
became familiar with all sorts of street and busi-
ness directories, census name directories, and
even such unpublished avenues for tracking
down people as the gas and electric company
journals (it took a bit of persuasive talk to get
information from these), bank records (Jaspan
could wheedle a head teller into reading him
confidential information over the phone), and
so on. He invented little stratagems of his own:
by telephoning a friend or relative of a skipped
debtor, and stammering painfully, he could usu-
ally get this person, in a burst of embarrassed
helpfulness, to fill in the names and street ad-
dresses he could ostensibly not pronounce.
Jaspan's father, meanwhile, had gradually
gotten into the Depression-born enterprise of
buying up failing businesses for nominal sums,
in order to wring out the accounts receivable
BY MORTON M. HUNT 67
and debts owed to them or, in some cases, to
build them up and resell them. At any one mo-
ment, he might simultaneously own a major in-
terest in a cigar-making firm, a cosmetic firm, a
sewing-machine manufacturer, and a candy job-
ber, all more or less sinking, if not sunk. In
1934, when Jaspan was eighteen, his father fell
seriously ill for a while, and Jaspan stepped in.
He and his father have been in business together
ever since, the elder Jaspan gradually retiring,
after 1942, to an administrative posf.
One of their standard procedures with a failing
business was to put one of their own twenty-odd
employees on location to supervise operations
and to see to it that nothing was being made off
with. From this to the use of undercover opera-
tors, with himself as master mind and key in-
terrogator, was a small but crucial step in
Jaspan's success story. Within his first few years
he discovered that there was a considerable de-
mand not only for an undercover investigative
service but also for such management-engineer-
ing jobs as tightening up the billing and shipping
procedures, making work-measurement studies,
redesigning the technique of inventory, and im-
proving warehouse methods, all to the end of
making dishonesty harder to get away with. "I've
got the best gimmick in the world for selling
management engineering," Jaspan often says ex-
ultantly. "I don't have to hit the management
people with their own shortcomings— I simply
sell them on the undercover work. In the end,
they sell themselves on the need for the other."
By 1945, Jaspan had about 150 employees and
a gross volume of over a million dollars per year.
Since the war, his combined businesses have
tripled again in size; he now has some 520 em-
ployees, thirteen field offices, and about six
hundred clients per year who pay fees close to
$4 million dollars.
BE SMART ABOUT IT
IN 1946 Jaspan married a serious, attractive,
redheaded medical student, Jeanne Rafsky.
The Jaspans now live with their two young
sons in a handsome eight-room apartment on
Park Avenue. What with Jaspan's continual
trips around the country and Dr. Rafsky's busy
practice, they lead a complicated life, but it in-
cludes, besides work, the pleasures of a summer
home in Atlantic Beach, chauffeur service, good
theatre tickets, gardening, painting, and fishing.
Twenty-seven years of combating the iniqui-
tous, the greedy, and the faithless have left Jas-
pan with a sweet and optimistic outlook on life.
He has even faced, without losing his cheer or
composure, the spectacle of the disabled em-
ployees of an agency for disabled persons help-
ing themselves courageously— to the agency's
collections.
Jaspan's experiences seem to indicate that a
shift of some kind is, actually, taking place in
the approved technique by which American so-
ciety enforces honesty. His latest culprits, when
he breaks through their defenses, are sorry that
they have done wrong— but not very sorry. The
United States Fidelity and Guarantee Company
studied 1,001 embezzlers before and up to 1935,
and another 1,001 in the postwar years. Thirty
of the former group committed suicide; only nine
of the latter group did so. Apparently it is get-
ting much easier to live with a bad conscience;
consequently, external techniques of control,
rather than internal ones, are having to take
over. In the restaurant business, for instance,
bribes, "commissions," and other favors are now
so persistently offered to major food buyers by
food and liquor vendors that one of Jaspan's
clients recently decided it was useless to hope
to find a truly honest man, or, even if he found
one, to try to keep him that way.
"I can't compete with my vendors," he said.
"They can subvert anybody, no matter what I
pay. Instead, I'm simply going to fire my chief
buyer every year or so and hire a new one; that
way I'll have a relatively honest man at least a
part of the time."
Jaspan disapproves of this counsel of despair.
"Never in our history has the crime of embezzle-
ment reached such a frightening level," he trum-
peted in a recent speech, "never have bribes and
kickbacks been so widespread. But there is no
reason to be pessimistic; I believe it is largely
correctable through management action. I urge
the constant search for malignant conditions
which haven't yet shown up on the surface. I
urge the creation of an atmosphere showing tjiat
management is alert, that it cares, that it is
watching. I urge planning ahead to prevent ad-
verse conditions, rather than waiting to see if
they arise. Some will disagree, and say that they'd
rather keep things simple and take a calculated
risk on the employees. Fine! I say, fine! Take
a calculated risk— but be smart about it."
He tapped his forehead and nodded sagely.
"Like the Chock Full O' Nuts people," he con-
tinued. "They let all their counter girls handle
cash, to save time and to save on hiring cashiers.
But they're smart about it— the uniforms they
hand out have no pockets!"
A beatific smile illuminated his face.
Harper's Magazine, November 1961
A Story by RICHARD ROGIN
• ... — ^•^
fg^.f^-^T'f^-''
In the Company of Runners
WE WALKED out across the bridge
o\er the silently flowiii" Cam: Chris,
the captain of the cross-country team, tall, blond,
surprisingly thick-legged for a distance runner;
a serious dark-haired tello^v with glasses whom
1 had seen run once before in the late afternoon
rain, forcing himself along gamely on the half-
mile leg of a medley relay; the chaplain, still
quite young, small, balding; and myself, with
apprehensive enthusiasm and a new sweat shirt
for the occasion. The others would meet us out
at the start.
With those quick bouncy steps runners take
when they go out before a race, we walked down
into the alley of winter trees. It was late Janu-
ary, brisk and suimy, the ground damp from a
touch of snow the week before. I was an Amer-
ican ai Camljridge University, studying at King's
College. That afternoon theie was to be a cross-
country meet against a neighboring Royal Air
Force base and, because of a manpower shortage,
I was invited to come along though I was almost
a (ompleie straiigei to my college team. And I
came. 1 was a graduate student and the rest
except for the chaplain were undergraduates.
You manage to find modest and even ridicu-
lous ways of indulging an athletic enthusiasm.
For me, running combined the dreamlike clial-
lenge of time with real sensuous joy. The com-
petitive delight was there but so was the delight
of simple movement. You have made the run;
you are complete.
Sports are made for heroes, champions, and
occasional princes. But almost everybody was a
young champion once— even shadow-boxing be-
fore the mirror. At some time of night we are
all welterweight champions of the world.
But I was never a prince nor shaped like one.
Wnien I came to Cambridge, running was in my
mind as always btu I did not expect to do any-
thing official. In high school I had run the last
two years— ordinary enjoyable half-miles. 1 had
won some races but the league was small. How-
ever, I had a habit of reruiniing the races at
night, devising strategy and myths of sjjeetl and
stamina. In the off-season of my senior year I
ran round and round on a snowy board track,
miles and miles. 1 contemplated success. But in
the spring I was very little better than the previ-
ous year and I sloughed it off as the wrong sort
of training.
In the fall I went to Dartmouth College and
went out for cross-country. We skipped rope and
threw a medicine ball, dashed up and down the
high cement steps of Memorial Field, and ran
in paced packs through the woods and over the
golf course, down a shady slope and home again.
It was very pleasant and the company was good.
I still have a certain prejudice toward the in-
telligence and imagination of distance runners
over sprinters and weightmen.
The woods were green and warm in that early
fall and I wore old track shoes that were com-
fortable and familiar. But I was never very
good, not enough stamina nor speed. We would
bunch at the start on the golf course and then
sprint off toward a narrow sandy gap and up-
hill into the woods. After the sweaty climb there
was the coolness across the open golf course;
then we would come pelting down the rocky
stumbling hill with abandon' before the forcing
run home. We traveled to Yale when the woods
were yellow and red and the runners came spill-
ing out of the rocky hills onto the green. We
loped across the great greenswards at Harvard.
Sometimes there was the proper clean fatigue,
that special satisfaction, the legs moving with
pleasure, and sometimes it was grim and only
enduring. Once my back had pained and my legs
lost their luck and my ambition went somber. I
trotted shamefully, with pain, refusing to walk,
along the wood trail, past the brook, and came
home seventeenth.
Cross-country if nothing else is a thoughtful
sport and a runner must have imagination and
ambition, must deeply believe in what he is
doing. Once that is gone, all is over.
After the race we would pick up our sweat
clothes in a gossiping crowd on the piney hill-
side and walk up the road to Alumni Gym. It
was not a good season; we lost three meets and
won only once. But it brought an intimacy with
place and college that I would not have wished
to miss. There were the wonderful hot showers,
the joy of them, talking quietly, tired, in the
steamy, stinging room. I would walk back to
the dormitory in that long-ago autumn with
a feeling of having been somewhere, traveled to
Richard Rogin studied at King's College,
Cambridge University, after graduating from Dart-
mouth in 1954. Outside of the Dartmouth literary
magazine, this is his first published story.
69
a significant destination that no one else had
been to, some upland place rammed with fable.
In the indoor winter season I quit. It was fail-
ure, I suppose, that caused this decision. I wasn't
really fast enough to enjoy the competition and
there were no more woods— only the black cin-
ders, round and round. I couldn't lug myself
around anymore without losing belief. But
though I quit official running, it was not all over.
On soft spring nights in later years I would turn
from studying for final examinations, don my
sweat clothes, and run in the night around the
stadium track, going a mile in the warm breezy
dark. On those nights there was no sense of
distance. Or at dawn at a summer beach I would
run on the edge of the sea, through the yellow,
blowing foam.
I H E N in the summer after my graduation
-^ I came from America to Cambridge. The
bulletin board in the reading room was always
crowded but I remember the day I found a
notice for those interested in running. Because
I was interested and also because when you come
to a new place sometimes you bear a mobile
egoism, as though of course you'll win, I signed
my name in a casual, reminiscent mood. I had
deposed my knowledge of England as a great
island for runners.
I indulged the fable that gathers around the
sport you love and were never particularly good
in. Frustration gilds it; participation makes it
enduring. Four years before, I had been for a
brief autumn an unnoticed but happy runner as
a Dartmouth freshman who ran through the up-
hill woods and over the flawless green of the golf
course, past Mink Brook and home again, finish-
ing around the middle of the pack. Now I was a
freshman in a new place. Chris, the captain,
might come around to my room and chat or we'd
stop on King's Parade or outside Hall, but no,
the American was always out of shape, too busy.
I shied away from competition. It was pleasant
enough to have put my name down.
And then one day in January at lunch, eating
shepherd's pie, Chris said, How about coming
out for a run? They were one man short and
needed just that one so the meet could be of-
ficial. Would I help? With fable in my mind
and wanting to help, I agreed to turn up at two
o'clock back of the college library and walk out
to the course with them. Whom are we running?
Oh, some RAF chaps. How far? Four or five
miles or so. You know, I'm rather out of shape.
Just like to jog now and then. I didn't tell him
that I had never run that far in my life. Quite
70
IN THE COMPANY OF RUNNERS
all right, Chris said, and showed me a carefully
drawn map of the course. I took a quick glance.
^Ve were to run in a sort of long closed loop
toward Grantchester and back, finishing up at
the start. Well, see you at two. I'll do my best.
Two o'clock and we bounced out through the
Backs, a region of lawns and river and gardens
to the colleges' rear, the greenest part of Cam-
bridge in the spring. We walked past the hoarse
writhing geese which paraded beyond the river.
The start was past Grange Road, back of the
Rugby grounds.
The RAF chaps were already there, limbering
up in faded sweat clothes, slender, long-legged,
with wool skiing caps on their heads, laughing
like young champions. For a long moment I
slid back to that somber painful afternoon in the
woods, running all alone, far behind. The race
doesn't necessarily go to the swift American, the
invincible stranger.
We clustered, jittery, informal, at the start,
looking out into the countryside down the nar-
row dirt road toward the fields beyond. Some-
one shouted, Go, and we were off. There were
those first few unbelievable steps when you are
nervously tired and yawny and must learn to
run again and then the easy rhythm, your legs
moving familiarly, dropping down in front.
I had forgotten how fast a cross-country race
starts off or perhaps it was a combination of
memory loss and lack of condition, but in the
first fifty yards I was running last, shoulder to
shoulder with a ilAF chap, each digging through
A muddy rut to right and left of the crown of
the wagon road. 1 had made up my mind pre-
viously that, though I was out just for the fun
of it and to fill up the team, I would try to
finish decently.
Going through the muddy puddled road be-
tween high thickets, hunting for firm places,
I stayed right on that RAF chap. I didn't try
to sprint and catch up. The chaplain was run-
ning strongly some distance ahead. Chris must
have been out near the leaders, for I couldn't
sec him. Then the thickets gave way to fields
and we were off the road and running through
a boggy, stubbly meadow, my sneakers sinking,
splashing; I was tired already in the first half-
mile. The last RAF man in blue shorts and red
shirt was well up ahead of me and the others
were beginning to disappear across the huge
field. It was an odd view of the proceedings.
When we veered from the field onto a narrow
winding dirt path again, I knew 1 would be run-
ning alone and easy for a long time; even the
next runner was out of sight. In one sense, it
was quite a private affair now. My only de-
cision was that I wouldn't stop. Slogging along
like an absolutely tired steeplechaser, I became
my-sized again.
With the curious detachment of utter defeat
I watched flocks of rooks rise black and silent
from the fields. The meadow was humped with
three giant hayricks, huge houses with rounded
tops. A pair of jet fighters whistled over, steam-
ing by like streamlined teakettles.
My course took me first toward Grantchester.
Running along I remembered walking there in
the early autimm down a path much like the
one I trotted on now, and the birds shying away
A STORY BY RICHARD ROGIN
71
down the flanking thickets. The men were in
the fields in that season building the third high
hayrick. I remembered a hawk shrieking, a huge
white horse, fishermen along the Cam, pollarded
apple trees, an English robin calling, singing
in full tones, and above all, somehow, the sense
of a landscape in miniature.
The path led onto the Cambridge-Grantches-
ter blacktop road and I turned left sharply, hom-
ing. The firm road felt good under my feet.
A blond boy from King's whom I had seen at
the race's start cycled toward me slowly. As I
panted by he wheeled and came abreast of me.
"I say there, are you part of the race?"
The lack of recognition, the abstract polite-
ness of this question, exasperated mc, but I
managed to grin back a feeble. Yes. After all, he
was right to query. There was nothing obvious
to tell him I was part of an event. I did have a
cardboard number pinned to the front of my old
Dartmouth T-shirt but that was all. It looked
very much as if I were running all alone, per-
haps an Olympian out practicing.
Several hundred yards down the road, a man
who I believe started the race a hundred years
ago waved me to the left again, back into the
meadows on another dirt path. I smiled. Thank
you, and jogged on, on my toes, easing along
like a champion well within his power. I ran
on and came to a confusion of muddy ruts and
footprints and meadows reaching away on all
sides. What was farmer and what cross-country?
Perhaps I saw the most marks there, but the way
I chose made me clamber with awkward fatigue
over a high wooden fence. Was this the English
style of cross-country racing? The doubt stayed
home to roost.
IH A D lost the course as completely as a child
wanders baffled through a summer wood.
Somewhere ahead of me, I was sure, the winner
was already striding toward the finish line to
vigorous shouts of "Well done, well done." With
this feeling came the first real touch of the
ridiculous and then shame.
Sighting the spires and towers of Cambridge
I knew my general way home and I ran now at
a considered moderate pace, as if forever. But
for the cardboard number I could have been any
sneakered eccentric jogging through the outlying
streets of Cambridge, for I arrived there shortly.
Trying to direct my course back to the start
I had come too close to town. Women were out
walking in the streets carrying bundles from the
stores. Everything was ordinary except for a
red-faced, red-kneed young man in a green shirt,
the usual type who ran through Cambridge
every afternoon strengthening his legs for the
next marathon. If there were any glances of
mild curiosity, I passed them by with all the
disdain a runner could muster who was intent
on form alone.
To get to where I was going I had to run back
along the river, past the punt shed and the
ducks, past two young mothers wheeling their
baby carriages on the narrow asphalt path in
the riverside park. I was still jogging, having
decided that no one would be out walking in
shorts in the middle of January, and only some
runner, somewhat mental perhaps, would go
for such a lark.
1 passed the Mill, a bridge and pub of the
same name where the students used to sit out
on the stone bridge on pleasant nights and watch
the waters race or someone leap in and swim
to the far shore for the laughter of it, drinking
hard cider and light ale, the interior pub sing-
ing, the park whispering, lilting. My course lay
through the remainder of the park, past the
swans in the pond, the big hanging sign for
Tolly Beer and Ale, and finally up West Road.
In my mind I imagined that no one would
be left waiting for me; dramatically, I almost
wished it. But as I rounded the Rugby field at
a determined pace, finishing the wrong way
home, stronger than ever, I saw three people
up ahead. One was the blond boy on the bi-
cycle who had intercepted me previously and
had been cycling through the muddy bush coun-
try in search. The other two were RAF specta-
tors who had kindly waited for no apparent
reason as they showed no worry. My team had
gone home to shower leaving an invitation to
tea at the Copper Kettle on King's Parade. My
afternoon's performance left me no opportunity
at the time to judge the morality of the de-
parture. Then I felt I had it coming— poetic
justice for a sort of pride.
For the first time in almost an hour or more
I stopped running, stood still in shaky fatigue.
I moved around a bit and felt clean without
great tiredness, breathing heavily but with no
trouble. Surprisingly, I was not as done in as
I thought. No one asked me what had happened.
Without prompting, I apologized for being late.
I had lost the course; grinning like a clown. It
seemed the proper thing to do as if you were
delayed at a sherry party or had overslept in the
sun.
Carefully I held my sweat pants wide open
with both hands and guided my legs in, then
hoisted the sweat shirt over my head. And we
72
IN THE COMPANY OF RUNNERS
walked back, cutting past the Garden Hostel,
down the alley of bare trees, past the rusty bang-
ing geese, over the idling Cam.
All I wanted now was a hot shower for my
aching body, a cup of hot tea, to lie down and
rest, sprawled in the old green repose of Cam-
bridge as I had first known it that lambent
afternoon arriving on the train from Liverpool
Street Station and Southampton. I wanted the
greenswards, house martins churring and tilting
over the towering chapel, the ritual of bells from
Great St. Mary's and all the othei churches of
Cambridge thronging through the dusky air, loll-
ing me to sleep.
I showered wiih infinite pleasure, dressed, and
went down to the Copper Kettle, walking slowly,
carefully, on pain. But I couldn't find the team
in the Kettle or anywhere else along King's Pa-
rade. Either the tea was called off or 1 had
come too late or, again, I had lost the course.
However it was, I returned gratefidly to my
room and collapsed on the sofa with my own
hot tea and toast and jam. By dinner time I hatl
figured my run at about six miles. Stiflly
struggling into my gown, 1 walked over to Hall
and more welcome food.
ID ID N'T see Chris for a day or two but
then he cornered me one afternoon just inside
the College gate. What happened? Oh, I lost
the course. Farce, tiny shame in my voice. And
we grinned. To the team it was irrelevant
whether I had run all the way or walked; simply,
I had finished fantastically far behind. Who
won? I asked. The RAF chaps. How did we do?
And he mentioned that Ellison placed second,
a name which I always afterward believed to be
the serious dark-haired fellow with glasses but
was never sure. It showed how little I knew my
running companions that afternoon.
They all found out about my losing the
course and thought it, as I did, comic. I re-
ceived some pleasant ribbing at the dinner table.
What would these Americans think of next?
Happily, though with a secret sense of un-
reasonable affront, I noticed that I was never
invited to another cross-country race. Though at
the same time I seem to remember it both ways;
that I did indeed receive another chance to run
only wisely turned it down. Perhaps they had
enough men for later meets. Maybe they had
enough at the time of the first race and never
actually needed mc (no one seemed to be count-
ing noses officially) and merely wanted to see
what the Yank could do lor fiuure reference.
But perhaps I cast aspersions on innocence.
Well, they knew. There was no glitter in this
impromptu elfort. For memory I had a sore right
foot for weeks afterward and a large piece of
white cardboard, somewhat wrinkled, with the
niuiibcr, 1()5. 1 never returned the number for
other runners in other races as was the custom.
Perhaps it deserved a quiet retirement.
In the spring Chris came around several times
urging me to attend the cross-country dinner.
But I refused gently, firmly. I told him I didn't
think I had earned my way, some such nonsense,
nor did I really know the people. I did not want
to be borne, even with generosity, as the stranger
in the company of runners.
Harper's Magaznu;, November 1961
180 MILLION
AMBASSADORS
FOR THE
UNITED NATIONS
W^^
^^m
Lny man or woman residing in the United
tates...with the heart, purpose, and will-
ngness to help prevent war and preserve
reedom . . . may apply.
'his is a job that will last all your life— and
our life may depend on the job you do.
rou will be an ambassador for the United
Nations.
(^our territory will be your neighborhood,
^our shop or office, your town, city, state or
is much of the earth as you can encompass.
Your job:
To inform yourself about the United Nations,
and keep others informed on—
■ What the UN has done and is doing to pre-
vent war while preserving freedom ;
■ What it has done and is doing to stamp out
poverty and prevent disease;
■ What it has done and is doing to establish a
world of law and justice.
For further information— and a free leaflet
about the United Nations— write to:
UNITED STATES COMMITTEE FOR THE UNITED NATIONS
375 Park Ave., New York 22, N. Y.
A non-partisan, non-profit educational organization whose Chairman is appointed by the President of the United States.
72A
How minding
our own
business
gets a lot of
other things
done
Searching for oil takes us to many kinds of place
The distant, the difficult, the unusual. Even tl
seemingly alien sea is a place for prospecting, C
We Find Sulphur
in the Sea
\.S,:./
ST AND A J
72B
A vast steel island — longer than three luxury line
— was built to hold rigs and equipment. The islai
even has a sixty -room hotel to house the crew
.o''"'^^
In the Gulf of Mexico, seven miles from the Louisiana
shore, our United States affiliate found good oil
reserves. And, while probing there . . .
the drill-bits pierced a great cache of sulphur!
Since our affiliate was not itself a sulphur-miner, it
arranged for a sulphur company to work the deposit.
From far below the waves at this spot in the Gulf,
sulphur now flows in great quantity — from the
world's third largest deposit of this basic mineral.
72C
Although our main job is oil, we try to keep our
non-oil eyes open, too. Business, conducted with
imagination, can often produce unexpected benefits.
"P
Peasant of Plcurdy.
(iph by Henri Cartier-Bresson (1960).
20
HENRI CARTIER-BRESSON
on the art of photography
AN INTERVIEW BY YVONNE BABY
Among; phofos;raphers there is a consensus
that Henri Cartier-Bresson is one of the great
photographers of our time. But this shy and elusive
man scarcely ever discusses his methods or his work
for publication. Recently the French journalist,
Yvonne Baby, was granted this rare intervieiv with
him in Paris. The accompanying photographs were
chosen by M. Cartier-Bresson as his favorite ex-
amples of his work.
... I always recognized Henri Cartier-Bresson
on the Paris streets, his slight gray figure slipping
anonymously through the crowd with a (|uick,
supple gait. I knew the charm of his smile, the
innocence of his blue eyes. I had noticed the
freedom of his gestures, never impeded by his
Leica camera which he carries with him every-
where. He has a rapt, concentrated expression of
one who listens and carefully observes, at the
same time pursuing a private dream.
I had heard him say to friends who had asked
to see his work: "But are you sure it won't bore
you?"— quite unlike the amateur who is all too
ready to arrange an evening of showing color
slides of his last summer vacation. Alert and
curious, Henri Cartier-Bresson is always asking
your opinion, always questioning. Yet behind
his anxiety one feels that he is serene, like some-
one who doubts yet has a basic certainty. He
talks little, and almost never about photography,
to which he has devoted the major part of his life
for the past thirty years.
I saw him again in Paris in the quiet atmos-
phere of his studio which opens onto the sky and
the city's slate roofs. He had just returned from
London and was taking a train that evening for
Italy, not to return to France before September.
As a reporter he travels a good deal, though he
denies being a "globe-trotter."
"Of course I'm curious," he says, "and when I
arrive in a place I like to see and understand
what is happening around me. But I need to
move slowly. I try not to travel by plane. A
photographer should never run. He should be
a tireless walker. That's the way to capture the
special moment on the sidewalk, at the street
corner, and in life.
"In this style of photography one should not
impose one's preconceived notions of a country;
rather, one should correct them. To me the only
strictly documentary photography is a catalogue.
All other photography is never pinely descriptive
but a personal means of expression. Only if one
forgets oneself in the process does the subject
become all-important and the photograph gain
in })ower. That's the only attitude to take if you
want to get to the depth of things. I know there
are camera wizards, and I know the illusions they
can create. Still I'm convinced the comments of
such wizards never really amount to a distinctive
point of view about any member of mankind and
his country. To me such methods are merely
gimmicks. Things done fast disappear fast; only
what is done with time will remain. 'Slowness is
beauty,' said Rodin, I think. Or was it 'Beauty is
slowness'?"
The staccato in Henri Cartier-Bresson's voice
reveals his nervousness. Sometimes he gets caught
on a word, then recovers himself quickly; or he
comes back to a phrase, blinks, smiles, and says:
"Do you understand?" He refuses to tell anec-
dotes or any details about his personal life, add-
ing that his biography can be found at the
Magnum Photos agency.
"With me," he says, "photography is a way of
drawing. It is not philosophy, or literature, or
music: it is a strictly visual medium, grasping at
the evidence of reality. The camera helps to see
mechanically and optically. (Who nowadays
would reproach a painter for using a pistol-spray
instead of the traditional paintbrush?) A photo-
74
St. Tropez (1959).
graph is made on the spot and at once. One has
no right to use tricks or to play around with
reality. We are always struggling with time:
whatever has gone has gone forever. The time
element is the key to photography. One must
seize the moment before it passes, the fleeting
gesture, the evanescent smile. For it is impossible
to 'start again.' That's why I'm so nervous—it's
horrible for my friends— but it's only by main-
taining a permanent tension that I can stick to
reality.
"My photographs are variations on the same
theme: Man and his destiny. No one is infinitely
versatile; each one of us carries within himself a
particular vision of the universe. It is this view
which makes for the unity in our work and,
ultimately, its style. To me liberty is a strict,
self-imposed framework: the discipline of respect
for reality. Within it, however, there are infinite
variations. I weave around the subject like the
referee in a boxing match. We are passive on-
lookers in a world that moves perpetually. Our
only moment of creation is that 1^5 of a second
when the shutter clicks, the signal is given, and
Henri Cartier-Bresson
the knife falls. We are like skilled shots who pull
he trigger and hit their target.
"Thinking should be done beforehand and
afterwards— never while actually taking a photo-
graph. Success depends on the extent of one's
general culture, on one's set of values, one's
clarity of mind and vivacity. The thing to be
feared most is the artificially contrived, the con-
trary to life." . . .
SHUN THE PICTURESQUE
Interviewer: What relationship is there be-
iween painting and photography?
Cartier-Bresson: The same rules of composi-
tion apply to both painters and photographers;
both are confronted with the same visual prob-
lems. Just as one can analyze the structure of a
painting, so in a good photograph one can dis-
cover the same rules, the proportional mean, the
square within the rectangle, the Golden Rule,
etc. That's why I like the rectangular dimension
of the Leica negative, 24 by 36mm. I have a pas-
sion for geometry. My greatest joy is the surprise
75
Henri Cartier-Bresson
Auvergne, near Clermont-Ferrand, France (1960).
of facing a beautiful organization of forms, the
intuitive recognition of a spontaneous— not con-
trived—composition; naturally with a subject
that moves. I think it's only when handled
this way that a subject takes on its full signifi-
cance.
I never crop a photograph. If it needs to be
cropped I know it's bad and that nothing could
possibly improve it. The only improvement
would have been to have taken another picture,
at the right place and at the right time. Distance
also is very important: the distance at which the
photograph as a whole is taken, and also the dis-
tance between one element in the picture and
another. Such relationships vary as much as the
tonality of a voice heard nearby or far away.
Unlike the painter, however, who can work at
length on a canvas, we have to work by instinct
and intuition, within a split second. We have to
catch the specific detail. Our procedure is
analytical, whereas the painter achieves his effects
through meditation and synthesis.
We have to situate ourselves with respect to
the subject; we have to have a point of view, we
have to absorb ourselves in it. To me the camera
is a prolongation of my eye. The instantaneous
combination of eye, heart, and head seems es-
sential to me.
I'm not in favor of color photography because
in its present state of development I can't con-
trol it completely. Dealing as we do with a world
in perpetual motion, I don't see how it's possible
to resolve the contradiction between dark and
light values and the altogether different proper-
ties of color itself. And the engraving process
distorts color invariably. I prefer to go on using
black and white film, which merely transposes
the subject. I never use a flash bulb— just as it
would never occur to me to shoot off a pistol
in the middle of a concert.
Some photographers are inventors, others are
discoverers. Personally, I'm interested in dis-
covery, not for experimental purposes but to
come to grips with life itself. It's the "why" that
interests me. I shun the dangers of the anecdotal
and the picturesque. Such effects may be easy,
but they are little better than sensationalism.
Getting a "surprise" effect, completely out of
76
Peking (1958).
context, seems to me a cheap technique. T be-
lieve photography has great evocative powers and
shouldn't be used simply to record facts. We
should be abstract but work from nature, i.e.,
use a rigorous structure based on reality.
Anybody can take photographs. In the Herald
Tribune I saw some pictures taken by a monkey
who had managed to use a Polaroid quite as well
as a number of camera owners. It's precisely be-
cause our profession is open to everybody that it
remains, in spite of its fascinating easiness, a
most difficult operation.
NO MESSAGE, NO MISSION
Interviewer: Why did you choose photog-
raphy?
Cartier-Hrisscjn: Photography enables me to
grasp the world directly through the m.edium of
a particular and significant detail. There is no
such ihing as an art ol generalities. It's a way of
understanding anfl a way of living more in-
tensely. I love looking at a fellow photographer's
contact sheet where I can see a sequence of pic-
Henri Cartier-Bresson
tures showing how a gentleman with a camera
moves through life. I have a great time and I
work for the love of the subject, not for the sake
of the magazine that ordered the pictures. I'm
grateful to the magazines for having offered me
the subject, but once I start working, I work for
the subject only. I don't refuse assignments, if
they are not gimmicky. What Renaissance artist
would have thought of despising a commission?
Recently I was asked to provide illustrations
for an American bank's annual report. I don't
understand anything about banks, and for ten
days I photographed everything I saw. Later I
was told that my photographic report was "a
commentary on white collar workers." It was
the best compliment they could have paid me,
for I had tried to do precisely that: to give an
impression of the lives of employees between
9:00 A.M. and 5:00 p.m. I had the same gratitude
toward the bank that one feels toward the par-
ents who have brought into the world the girl
one is in love with.
If you should ask me about the role of the
photograj)her in our epoch— about the influence
-^iKm
I
Queyras Vnlley, France (i960).
of the photographic image— I don't want to go
into detailed explanations. I will only stress
the photographer's great responsibility. Photo-
joinnalism has a powerful immediate impact
upon millions of people, for the impact of the
visual image is far greater than that of words.
It is a way in which Mr. So-and-so testifies to the
world on a given subject, to the best of his abili-
ties. The ideal, in fact, is always to try to go
somewhat beyond one's abilities. In photography,
as in the other arts, talent only gives us the right
to work even harder. It is in this that the photog-
rapher's sense of pride and responsibility should
lie.
I feel that photography derives from pleasure,
from a visual pleasure which no caption can
equal. To me, reading captions for a picture is
like keeping one's nose buried in a museum
catalogue instead of absorbing the painting itself.
But people who know how to look are as rare as
people who know how to listen. So many think
only in concepts. . . .
(Here Henri Cartier-Bresson broke off and said
in a lower voice, as if to himself: "It's beautiful
Henri Cartier-Bresson
to watch a painter looking long and steadily at
his canvas. . . .")
I have no "message" or "mission" (he went
on), I have a point of view. Photography is a
very important means of communication, and we
are responsible to the millions of people we
reach through the press. We shouldn't stoop to
a vulgar game; we should neither underestimate
the public nor succumb to preciousness. A
painter's canvases go to museums or galleries
when they are finished, to be viewed by the con-
noisseur; our work is turned over for public
consumption. Therefore it is necessary that
everybody should understand it. This is not im-
possible, for everybody is potentially an artist.
In 1946, Robert Capa, Chim (David Seymour),
George Rodger, and myself founded the Magnum
agency so as to pool our photographs in a sort of
co-operative association. It was a way for us to re-
main independent and at the same time to have
a central office to handle commercial and ad-
ministrative matters. Capa stepped on a mine
which exploded in Indochina, and the same day
another of my associates, Werner Bischof, fell off
78
HENRI CARTIER-BRESSON
a precipice in Peru. Chim was killed at Suez,
and now we are about twenty or so associates,
comprising seven different nationalities, who
continue to record on film what takes place in
the world. We don't belong to a school, but we
share the same vie^vs as to the responsibility of
the photographer. The agency is c.nirely sup-
ported by our work, and I think we feel a lot
freer— though not entirely carefree— by not regu-
larly getting a check at the end of the month.
Ours is a very small profession. While, literally
speaking, there is no comj:)etition. the market is
very limited. Yet the contrived stories which
magazines so often ask for become handicaps to
photography as an art. If we arrive at a place
where we are known, or if we are sent by a big
magazine, they roll out the red carpet for us.
Otherwise we are treated like the man who comes
to repair the plumbing and might make off with
the ash tray. Our profession doesn't always have
a very good repiuation. People call out: "Hi
there, it's the photographer!" and then: "Send
along a couple of prints." Why don't they ask
the banker who handles so many banknotes each
day to give them ten thousand francs? Pho-
tographers have no clear social status; they are
on the periphery without any real prestige, and
often people wonder who those odd types are,
skipping around them on the street.
A FIERCE ENJOYMENT
Interviewer: Do you mind being on the
periphery?
CartU'R-Bresson: Not at all. I don't want to
be recognized. I'm often taken for a German or
an Englishman. If, by chance, somebody dis-
covers who you are, he says: "It's so-and-so"—
and immediately launches into a discussion of
lenses. It's a marvelous thing that there are so
many tourists who carry cameras: thanks to them
we can mix easily with the crowd, look around,
and go about our work fairly vni observed. It
seems to me equally important that in our day—
when the trend is toward an exaggerated sense of
individualism— a large number of j)hotographers
should have the same kind of attitude toward
their profession. The anonymous side of pho-
tography is very nuich like the sculpture of the
Middle Ages: it is based on a common principle
and attitudes, and it differs only in degrees of
sensitivity. One has to tiptoe lightly (my camera
never leaves me) and steal up on one's (|uarry:
you dori'i swish (he water when )ou'rc fishing.
One day when I was taking photographs at a
jew eh y auction, a woman came up t(j nie with a
worried look: she wanted to know if I was a news
reporter. I didn't say Yes or No. Instead I said
to her: "I'm a maniac." That set her mind at
rest. "Very good," she said, "please go on." It
happens to be true; photographing, or rather,
watching, is my mania. It's an obsession, a
fanaticism. Whatever I know about photography
I have gathered from different sources: painting
in the studio of Andre Lhote, reading Stendhal,
Joyce, the newspaper Le Monde, and listening to
the criticisms of my friends. I read Le Monde,
the Nexu York Times, the Observer, and the Man-
chester Guordinn, because none of them special-
izes in pictures. I can find the pictures myself,
and I prefer to look at the analysis of a situation
so I'll know where to go.
I find the work of Brassai, of Eugene Smith, of
a number of young people at Magnum and else-
where, and the portraits of Man Ray a stimulant.
But whenever I see bad jihotos I feel sad, and to
get the feeling that things are back in place again
I go off and look at painting.
What is to become of all these photographic
documents? How many will survive? I, for one,
concentrate on the next picture I'm going to
take. I went out this morning and took two near <-
the subway. It's my way of keeping a diary, of
sketching. Great photographs are rare. If some-
one asks me: "How many photographs do you
take a day?" I can only answer: "How many
interesting things did you hear today, and did
you write them down?"
I don't believe in inspiration. I'm convinced
that one must work and keep on working. A
friend of mine, with whom I was discussing such
ideas, said: "After all, you don't really work. You
take your fierce enjoyment (trt prends un diir
plnisir)."
I like principles. I hate rules. When I go to
the movies, others always ask me whether I liked
the photography. Why? It's the story in a movie
that interests me, just as on the street I think
about the things I see. . . .
. . . Cartier-Bresson rOse from the sofa and
passed in front of rose and brown Indian curtains
to the armchair, looking more at ease standing
than sitting down. Sometimes he tilts his head
slightly and half shuts his eyes as if he were
looking at a painting or thinking of taking a
j)h()tograph.
"If I were to give uj) my profession," he said,
"I should undoubtedly paint." He paused. 'But
I can'i do two such similar and yei contradictory
things ai the same time."
—Translated by Elizabeth (larmkhael
Harper's Magazine, November IV61
ROWLAND EVANS, JR.
India Experiments with
Sterilization
A drastic form of birth control is offering
some hope — though still a slight one —
of curing Asians most dangerous epidemic.
FO R tlie first time in history a nation is
being encouraged by its government to
submit to sterilization. Ironically, the country is
India, where for centuries each male child has
been a coveted symbol of fertility. Today a
troubled, uncontrolled river of humanity threat-
ens to inundate the government's ambitious
development plans. The bleak statistics are
these: each year adds nearly ten million hungry
bodies to the more than 438 million already
there.
India's population crisis is a paradox of
progress. Improved public-health measures have
checked the death-dealing plagues of the past
and lowered the death rate— while the birth rate
soars. Japan, at least for the time being, has
mastered a similar population explosion— largely
with legalized abortions, now running at a mil-
lion-a-year rate. Poland, one of the most Catholic
nations in the world, has also legalized abor-
tions. Although the risks of abortion can be
reduced to a minimum in a properly conducted
legal program under medical auspices, neither
Japan nor Poland is happy about the widespread
resort to abortion and both are encouraging the
use of contraceptives. And neither abortion nor
any of the cruel methods of the past— such as
infanticide— has the finality of sterilization.
A similar reluctance characterizes the Indian
approach to sterilization. However, the mere
fact that sterilization is public policy bespeaks
the government's deep concern about the prob-
lem. S. Chandrasekhar, Director of the Indian
Institute for Population Studies, states the case
unequivocally: "What is needed is a method
which is simple, safe, cheap, effective, acceptable
culturally. . . . Only one method meets most of
the requirements [today]: sterilization."
M. C. Chagla, former Indian Ambassador to
the United States, says— with a candor which
often shocked American audiences— "Until we
develop an oral contraceptive that works and
that we can afford, we must encourage steriliza-
tion after the third or fourth child. It must be
voluntary, but it must be encouraged."
To end permanently any human being's fertil-
ity is a step involving subtle and complex ques-
tions which no foreign observer can presume to
answer. Nonetheless, the dimension of India's
population epidemic prompts many of the na-
tion's leaders to ask whether their government
should not make a greater effort in the direction
of sterilization, if only as an interim brake on
the spiraling birth rate until a less drastic solu-
tion can be found. For the visitor, it is a punish-
ing sight to see the evidence of uncontrollable
population growth in the squalor and poverty,
in the gutters and tin shacks of India's villages
or the crowded mud alleys of the countryside.
The story is etched, for instance, in a scene I
recall in the tiny village of Narayantala near
Calcutta. An old man with a gray stubble of
beard, broken teeth, and tired eyes surveyed the
brown huts huddled under thatched mushroom-
shaped roofs. An eight-year-old girl scooped up
cow pies with her hands. Later, she would pat
them into pancake shapes and plaster them
against the mud walls of the huts and when they
had baked out in the hot sun, they would be
stored away for winter fuel.
"When I was a boy," the old man said, "they
took away forty or fifty bodies after a cholera
epidemic. It happened every five or ten years.
Now they come and vaccinate our children. I
so
INDIA EXPERIMENTS WITH STERILIZATION
have lived here almost seventy years. The big-
gest change in my time has been health. We've
learned how to keep from dying."
The clean-swept pathways between the brown
huts were alive with children. Off in the slug-
gish canals that flanked the narrow road, teen-
age boys cast weighted nets in search of the
minnow-like tangra, a morsel of a fish about as
long as a thumb.
The boys who had no nets were knee-deep in
the canals, bent double from the waist, their
supple fingers grappling in the muddy bottoms
for the succulent tangra. For so small a reward,
the effort seemed hardly worth it, but the tangra
narrows the food gap.
Pressure of population is pressure for food.
Already approximately 10 per cent of India's
food consumption, measured in calories, comes
from somewhere else. It is true that domestic
food production is on the rise, but the annual
increment cannot keep pace with what Ambas-
sador Chagla calls the "specter of increasing
population."
I recall vividly the voice of our pretty woman
guide one day in Bombay, far from the ant hills
of humanity. "In twenty years," she said, "we
will educate our people so they not only will
know about birth control but will cry out for it.
By that time, there will be so many of us that
we'll be eating each other."
We were in a small boat on a lonely stretch of
water between Bombay and the Elephanta Caves.
It was a relief to find oneself all at once removed
from the ceaseless murmur of millions, the soft
padding of infinite numbers of brown bare feet,
the sounds of multitudinous tongues. In the
cities, one not only sees but feels through the
pores the throb of exploding population.
Per capita income has gone up slightly— to
around $65 a year after thirteen years of inde-
pendence and two five-year plans. During that
time, some S22 billion of development capital
has been invested. Since independence the birth
rate has dropped-but infinitesimally, from an
estimated 41.7 per 1,000 population in the 1951-
56 period to 40.7 per year in the last five-year
span. The death rate has almost halved during
Rowland Evans began planning this article
during a tour in India last winter. He is a political
reporter and columnist in Washington for the New
York "Herald Tribune." He attended Yale, served
with the Marines in the Solomon Islands campaign,
and later worked with the Philadelphia "Bulletin"
and the Associated Press.
the same period. As a result, population soars
at a fairly constant rate of close to 2 per cent,
which all but obliterates the increase in produc-
tion of goods and food.
A CRY FOR HELP
TH E Indian government's noble but in-
adequate struggle with its population
explosion dates back to 1935 when a National
Planning Committee, cliaired by Mr. Nehru,
endorsed family planning. The first birth-control
clinic, however, was opened ten years earlier
under private auspices. Today there are about
2,500 clinics— a paltry number for a nation of
more than 400 million.
I visited one clinic at 126 Chittaranjan Ave-
nue in Calcutta. A Family Planning Association
sign was tacked on its drab facade. Inside, eight
women in saris waited self-consciously for inter-
views with Mrs. Sushili Singhi, general secretary
of the association's Bengal branch. The place
had the look of a Salvation Army post or a bleak
county medical clinic in Arkansas or New Hamp-
shire. Mottoes were hung on the musty walls:
"Ask your doctor about planning your family,"
and, "Planned parenthood ensures healthy es-
sentials for a child." The clinic schedule was
written on a small blackboard: "Monday 4-6
male doctor; Tuesday 4-6 lady doctor; Interview
with General Secretary Monday 11-12, Friday
3-4."
Thirteen thousand ncAv patients and 15,000
old patients came to this clinic in 1959. With
two assistants Mrs. Singhi works tirelessly and
ingeniously to answer their questions about
contraception. She also spreads the word by visit-
ing village women in their homes. Seated at her
desk in the back room of the clinic, she spoke in
a voice touched with frustration.
"When I go to the women in the villages
there is a cry for help, 'Please give me some
pills,' or, 'Can't you make an injection?' " she
said. "We do what we can, biu it is not much."
Eighty per cent of the clinic's budget is fi-
nanced by the central government, the balance
by voluntary contributions. Always there is not
enough— if not of this, then of that. In addition
to providing contraceptives, the clinic tries to
arrange for sterilization operations for those
who want them. "But it is difficult to get hos-
pital beds," Mrs. Singhi said, "particularly for
women. The maternity cases crowd us out." Al-
though she spoke with philosophic resignation,
Mrs. Singhi conceded that the work of the clinic
has an impact on the total population problem
Photographed at Dumbarton, Scotland, by "21" Brands
A squad of geese guards Ballan tine's
it Dumbarton, Scotland, thousands of oaken barrels of Scotch
V^hisky destined to become Ballantine's lie racked in the aging
beds. They are guarded by a proud squad of 18 white Chinese
;eese, led by a crusty old gander irreverently
ailed Mr. Ballantine. Any uninvited visitor
nust first deal with these stern sentinels. For
me shrill cackle starts another and soon a tune-
2SS symphony brings the authorities.
Tcre the 42 fine Scotch Whiskies that go into
Jallantine's are brought to maturity. Rolling
mists from the nearby Clyde gently wrap each barrel in a silken
blanket. As the whisky in each barrel "breathes" this moist
Scottish atmosphere, it slowly loses any sharpness, emerging
with its characteristic sunny-light flavor.
Once harmonized into Ballantine's, the result is
Scotch Whisky unsurpassed in authentic taste-
never heavy or brash . . . nor so limply light that
it merely teases the taste buds. Just a few rea-
sons why: Thenioreyoti Liunvahoiil Sntlrli.
the more you like Ballantine^ s.
BOTTtED IN SCOTt«ND • BtENDED SCOTCH WHISKY . 86 PROOE . IMPORTED BY"2rSran6s, ItlC, NY. C.
N'^Ihi
t
gill
«!|c
»
r
fc
^W Lin6 The Distant Early Warning Line: a ciiain of radar stations extending for 4,500
)S along the 70th parallel from Cape Lisburne, Alaska, across Baffin Island and the great
|enland icecap to Iceland. Primary mission: alert North America in the event of bomber attack
)ss the polar regions. Our role: maintain the DEW Line and keep it in constant operation! Since
5came operational, this significant responsibility has been assigned (under contract from the U.S.
Force) to an ITT company. Other jobs involving ITT system companies in the operation and
jiagement of vital supporting services include: instrumentation of the Eglin Gulf Test Range in
ida; instrumentation services for the Navy at the Pacific Missile Range: and Project 465L — a
lid-wide automatic system for instantaneous command and control of SAC.
1 ■ ■
IVISIOnS The ITT System is — Oy Suomen Standard Electric AB in Helsinki. The ITT
tem is — Compagnie Generale de Constructions Telephoniques in Paris. The ITT System is —
Indard Elektrik ve Telekomunikasyon Limited Sirketi in Ankara. The ITT System is a homogeneous
imunications industry with other divisions and subsidiaries in 30 countries throughout the free
Id — and sales representatives in many more. All in all, ITT companies have facilities covering
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r3m3tiC The ITT System is unique in today's world of electronics and telecommunications,
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i.
Great
Moments
BENJAMIN RUSH: Phy-'^iriaii. Pcdaiil. Pahiol-oiic of a scries
of oiigiiial oil l>aiiilingi coininissioiied by Parke-Davis.
in
Medicine
The firstyears of the new United Slates (kinaiulcd much
ol the men ^vh() helped shape the union, and I)o( tor
!'>enjamin Rush proved worthy ol the challenge. A
bi^^iier of the Declaration of Indejiendence, Rush A\as
also an Army Surgeon and teacher. He was a man who
backed up his moral convictions with great physical
courage. In 1793, a yellow lever epiilemic scourged
I'liiladelpliia, then cajiital of the Iledgling nation.
While oth s fled, Rush stayed on to try to hel|) the
ick, and hin'!! survived two attacks of fever. Though
lany of his id' -- were contjoversial, he has come to be
Imic)vvii as ilie Uiiiied Stales' first great jiliysician.
Men like Benjamin Rush, who ^vill persevere for the
common good desj)ile personal danger, benefit all
mankind. It is this kind of individual courage thai
has raised medicine from unscientific beginnings
to today's skilled and dedicated jjrofession.
At l*arke-I)a\is, the \ ilal scare h ne\ er slops (or betler
medicines (or use by medical and pharmaceutical
jM'olessions to combat illness and disease. It started
in 18(")(); it continues today. Research such as this
hel])s make possible Icjngei', ])ieasanter, more usedil
li\'es for you and your (amily.
COI'YRJGMT l'JI,()-l'Jl,l — PARKE, DAVIS (k COMr-ANY. DETROIT 32. MICHIGAN
PARKE- DAVIS
I'ioiu'os in better iiieclicines
not much greater than a flashlight on the face of
the sun. It is also true that, at the present rate,
sterilization no more impedes the rising popula-
tion than a cobweb impedes an express train.
Here are the infinitesimal statistics on steriliza-
tion operations through the middle of last year:
Male
Female
Total
1956
2,333
4,590
(i,02.i
1057
3,671
9,859
13.530
1058
9,072
16,801
25,873
1059
13,925
21,797
35.722
HHiO (incom.) 10,653
11,427
22.080
A significant point about these figures is this:
vasectomies, or male sterilizations, have moved
up from a third or a fourth to about onc-Iialf
and soon will move higher. This apparently is be-
cause only recently has it been widely recognized
that vasectomy is a speedy, safe procedure which
works almost every time.
Vasectomy is a minor operation that merely
severs and removes a small section of the vnsn
dcjercutia, the threadlike tubes that carry the
sperm from its origin to the ejaculatory duct.
The operation takes fifteen minutes, requires
only local anesthetic, and permits the patient to
proceed with his normal life in three days.
Neither his urge nor his capacity to make love is
impaired.
Less than 200,000 sterilizations have been re-
ported to the government in five years. This is
the merest drop in the bucket, for the objective
is to stabilize the population somewhere around
GOO million. Estimates vary, but it appears that
two million sterilizations a year would suffice.
Over five years, that works out to ten million
sterilizations or fifty times the rate of the last
five years.
If it is true that a simple, effective, and in-
expensive oral contraceptive is still some years
away, a stepped-up research program in this field
is a major objective. But in the meantime what
is clearly needed now is a multiplier to raise the
sterilization rate quickly. Many thoughtful In-
dians have concluded that one possible multi-
plier would be a national policy of incentive
payments to encourage parents to undergo sterili-
zation. The central government has not taken
this step (although it pays the cost of surgery).
Incentive plans, however, are being tqied out in
several of India's fifteen states. The state of
Madras, which is a leader in this unprecedented
scheme, now pays thirty rupees ($6 at the official
rate) for a vasectomy. The state also pays the
entire cost of the operation (very small) and
whatever other charges there are.
The city of Madras, capital of the state
BY ROWLAND EVANS, JR. 85
that holds about one-twelfth of India's total
population, started its pilot experiment in
1959 to find out (1) if birth control on a large
scale was feasible and (2) if it was, by what
method. The experiment was limited to Madras
City. The results of the first seven months of
1959 were described by R. A. Gopalaswami,
chairman of the program committee of the
Madras State Family Planning Board, in a paper
presented to the Family Planning Research Con-
ference held in New York in October 1960.
During that period, 38,829 mothers were ap-
proached about various methods of limiting
their families. Only 2,888 disclaimed interest.
The others (92 out of every 100) were not only
interested but wanted help and instruction in
one of the major common methods of birth
control— the rhythm method, contraceptives, or
sterilization. Despite this high interest, only
1,578 actually took advantage of their instruc-
tion: 407 by sterilization (the operation is sal-
pingectomy, which means tying off the Fallopian
tubes and blocking the male sperm) and the rest
by some form of contraception or natural
method.
During the same seven months, 18,0.31 fathers
were instructed. It was more difficult to make
contact with them, not because they weren't
interested but because they were working and
accordingly difficult to get at. Of those who
came, 240 asked to be sterilized. No follow-up
was possible on the others.
NEWS OF CASH TRAVELS
ALTHOUGH these percentages are very
small, Mr. Gopalaswami found that "surgi-
cal methods [sterilization] are likely to 'catch.' "
A key reason for this significant finding may well
be the payment of an incentive, a technicjue that
was adopted hesitantly.
"The question of giving a little monetary
inducement for sterilization had been considered
from time to time," Mr. Gopalaswami reported,
"There were divided views to begin with and a
decision was postponed for some time. Then a
cautious beginning was made with the offer of a
small cash payment limited to employees of
government and the corporation [the city of
Madras].
"This did not seem to have much effect . . .
[but] the news reached the poorer classes of
people who were visiting the information cen-
ters. Requests were received for the extension of
this scheme to the general jjublic in Matlras City.
Last year [1959], after a great deal of hesitation.
86
INDIA EXPERIMENTS WITH STERILIZATION
it A\as decided that a cash grant of thirty rupees
should be paid to every poor person who got
himself (or herself) sterilized in a government
hospital. This grant was justified as necessary to
meet the cost of transport to the hospital and
back and partly to cover loss of earnings.
"This offer of a small cash grant . . . turned
out to be a good investment. Visitors to the
hospitals in Madras City increased in number,
rapidly enough to lead to the demand for new
building accommodations and the setting up of
whole-time surgeries. The news spread to other
districts and created a demand for extension to
rural areas. We were initially hesitant because
of our anxiety to limit the work to highly skilled
surgeons and to keep the pilot experiment under
close observation.
"But the demand was insistent. The benefit of
the scheme, with some slight modifications, was
extended to two thousand selected villages— out
of a total of some fifteen thousand. It was found
that the demand could not be limited even to
the selected villages [and the] government felt
compelled to issue orders extending the scheme
to all villages and towns in the state."
The Madras government approves the opera-
tion and offers incentive payments only to par-
ents who have at least three living children and
who sign a statement indicating they understand
that the operation is irreversible (actually in a
small percentage of cases it is not) and that they
are willing to have no more children. Women
must be at least twenty-six years old. So far as is
known, there is no evidence of regrets or
emotional difficulties after the operation.
In assessing the possibilities of the sterilization
program, Mr. Gopalaswami took note of the fact
that in Japan abortion is the most prevalent
method of population control even though in-
formation about other methods is readily avail-
able. (The ratio between abortions and the use
of contraceptives, during Japan's rapid birth-rate
decline the past ten years, is more than two to
one in favor of the former.) Apparently, Mr.
Gopalaswami observed, "the reluctance to change
over from normal carefree conjugal habits is
stronger than the desire to avoid unwanted
pregnancy. Where this psychology prevails, the
use of contraceptive appliances can be expected
to spread only very slowdy."
OH, THE SHAME OF IT!
Oberlin, Ohio-June 20, 1840
ONE thing has lately occurred of a most painful nature which we wish to keep
for a time a strict secret. I venture to open it to you for the purpose of asking
your advice, for I scarcely know what to do myself. Some time ago Prof. Hudson
(of Latin & Greek) and Tutor Cochran (of Logic) while attending a meeting of
the College of Teachers of this State at Columbus, in the capacity of delegates
from O. stole a visit to the Theatre. The fact providentially came to the ears of
the Faculty and those brethren forthwith addressed a letter to the faculty resigning
their posts in the institution. The affair now stands in this attitude. We have to
decide, or recommend to the Board, the reception or refusal of their resignation.
I hardly know what to do.
In some respects the case seems a plain one. They committed a grievous wrong
against God and the institution. They did it under circumstances the most
aggravating and while the cautionary letter of Bro. Burnell charging them to
remember their responsibilities to Oberlin and demean themselves like holy
men, was fresh in their memories and had scarcely j^assed out of their hands.
It does seem that such a delinquency at such a time, when the eyes of all insti-
tutions in the State were fixed upon them, is utterly unpardonable. Still it was
a single act, which they profess to regret and repent most bitterly. My dear Bro.
consider this singular case; pray over it and write me soon what you think of it.
You will of course whisper it to no one yet. May the Lord guide us by his Spirit
to a wise decision.
—J. A. Thome of the Faculty of Oberlin College to Theodore and A. Grimke
(Weld Grimke Letters in the Clements Library at the University of Michigan).
BY ROWLAND EVANS, JR
87
Abortion is illegal in India. Mr. Gopalaswami
(who speaks only for himself) recommends, as a
target for every village, subdivision, municipal
town, city, and state in India, a sterilization rate
of five per 1,000 population per year, or some
two million sterilizations each year. Chilling as
it may sound, one cannot look at India without
concluding that a drastic program is required
now. For if the birth rate is not reduced, India
and the foreign nations helping her may soon
discover that no matter how persistent and
heroic the attemjjt, the flood of popidation will
doom the effort to break through what Prime
Minister Nehru calls the era of scarcity. Indeed,
it will be hard to keep the country's living stand-
ards from falling lower still.
THE CASE FOR GOING SLOW
IN New Delhi I found Prime Minister Nehru
philosophic about India's overwhelming num-
l)ers. "Our country is a big one," he said with
an explanatory smile. "Whatever we do here is
going to be small when compared to the whole,
because of our great numbers. There is no
organized opposition here, as there is in some
countries, to oiu" programs for birth control and
family planning. A committee of Catholic
l)ishops visited me several years ago and we
talked about the government's plans. But there
was no effort to interfere, no formal objections,
even though we have almost five and a half
million Catholics. We are going ahead and we
are making progress, but it is a most difficult
task."
An infoimed opinion exists in India that Mr.
Nehru is the only force powerful and prestigious
enough to engineer a breakthrough in family
limitation. This same opinion holds that the
Prime Minister was won over to birth control
somewhat reluctantly. If he has new plans cut
to the full measure of the emergency, one does
not hear of them.
Even Dr. B. L. Raina, head of the Central
Government's Family Planning, seems resigned
to the present rate of progress. Dr. Raina, whose
mien is professorial with an underlayer of vigor
and intensity, makes an impressive case— but not
a convincing one— for going slow.
"My motto is, let the whole country hum with
family planning, but it takes time and patience
to change the mores of a people as numerous as
ours. What is involved here is not only the
emergency of rising population but also the
social policy of each family having what it needs
to live a full life. If we go too fast, we will set
in motion a reaction we do not want and the
program will suffer. We must create a demand
for family planning— and then provide the serv-
ices."
Dr. Raina's title is Secretary of the Central
Family Planning Board, which is a division of
the Ministry of Health. Those who hold that
Nehru is not moving fast enough criticize the
interment of Family Planning in the Health
Ministry; even the Health Ministry lacks cabinet
status. These critics feel that family planning is a
vital function of government not because of
health problems but because of the population
jjroblem. Unless population growth is con-
trolled, the nation may not survive; accordingly,
they believe, family planning is probably the
single most vital object of all government's con-
cern today.
Dr. Raina says he has a free hand to get what-
ever funds he needs from the government.
Sjiending is pegged at a level five times higher
for the Third Five Year Plan than for the
Second— up to 250 million rupees (|52 million)
minimum. The new plan will strengthen the
staffs of medical schools, provide the training for
doctors in the technique of sterilization, and
supply to the states mobile surgical units,
equipped to do vasectomies.
;\dmittedly, the work of education, service,
publicity, teaching, and clinic-building is de-
pressingly difficult. There is a monstrous short-
age of trained people to teach family planning to
illiterate villagers although Mr. Gopalaswami
reports that in Madras the personnel problem
was reduced to "manageable proportions." But
teaching parents how to use contraceptives is un-
commonly difficult in villages with no running
water and no lights at night. And teaching is
also necessary to convince the illiterate that their
next child is not an economic asset but a
national liability.
"I can tell a man, family planning is good for
your wife, and he won't listen," Dr. Raina said.
"I can say it is good for his health, and he will
shrug his shoulders. But if I can convince him
that it is good for his children, then he will begin
to listen."
Dr. Raina opposes a national incentive system
to encourage sterilization. "First we must have
education," he says. "If we get our people to
submit to operations, for money or some other
economic advantage, before they are ready, they
might regret it for the rest of their lives, and
their friends with them. And then our program
would suffer."
This opinion seems somewhat in conflict with
88
INDIA EXPERIMENTS WITH STERILIZATION
the results of the Madras experiment, possibly
because Madras is an advanced state. And the
center's own surveys indicate that a large per-
centage already favors some form of family
planning in some degree— between 75 per cent
and 78 per cent in one study.
^^ WHOSE BUSINESS IS IT?
^c Ts IT possible that a system of national in-
'^ JLcentives for sterilization could help to trans-
late into action this apparent longing for help?
I found an affirmative answer to that question
from many of the nongovernment experts I
talked to.
It is dangerous for a foreigner to advise a
great nation how to solve its problems, and
particularly one that touches the fundamentals
of human life. Nevertheless, we in the United
States are advised quite freely by others how to
deal with our race problem and whether to
resume nuclear testing. To shy away from the
momentous questions plaguing other great na-
tions is to strike the pose of the ostrich.
In this country, we are at last beginning to
be seriously concerned about runaway popula-
tion growth in India, Latin America, and else-
where. We are sending hundreds of millions of
dollars to help India channel her resources into
investment so that the national product and the
standard of living can grow faster— instead of
being lost to the insistent consumption demands
of new millions. It is ironic that the United
States government spends more than $500 mil-
lion a year for medical research but nothing for
research of population control. Surely a review
of public policy in this area is overdue.
Stephen Enke, the economist, has given
thoughtful study, perhaps more than any other
expert, to the possibility of national incentive
payments in India— to fathers for vasectomies;
and to wives for avoiding pregnancy. Wives
could prove they were not pregnant by examina-
tions three times a year. Enke has calculated
that the value to the economy of a permanently
prevented birth is at least 500 to 600 rupees'
worth of resources, or about twice the per capita
consumption. He further computes that a na-
tional incentive program might reduce births by
an average of 2.4 million a year over ten years, at
a cost for surgical instruments, clinics, etc., of
120 to 180 million rupees. A population cut of
this size could be expected to reduce consump-
tion by as much as 7.5 billion rupees during the
ten years. Thus the possible resource return over
I he ten years would be roughly fifty to one.
An incentive scheme might cost as much as
one to 2.5 billion rupees a year. Finding this
cash would be extremely difficult, Mr. Enke says,
but perhaps not impossible. On one of his trips
to India, Mr. Enke discussed this whole question
with high government officials. When he told
them it was mathematically possible to compute
the value of a permanently pre~oented birth, he
was asked to make his studies available not only
to the government but to the people. Mr. Enke
concedes that this approach to India's overpopu-
lation is "radical." But many Indians believe
that nothing less than such a desperate stopgap
will meet the mounting crisis. India's death rate
is still more than twice that of the U.S. If and
when India feels the full magic of modern medi-
cine the death rate may drop quickly and the
population shoot up even faster— unless the birth
rate is correspondingly reduced.
"It is criminal to make people live longer so
that they could' produce more children who
would lower the standards not only of their par-
ents but of the country as a whole," says former
Ambassador Chagla. "The average calorie con-
sumption of an Indian is only two thousand as
compared to three thousand in this country. . . .
We grow more food in India and the population
catches up with the increase. . . . What we want
is to cut down our present birth rate by at least
half."
The alternative, one is compelled to say, is
uncounted numbers of offspring who will never
have a fidl stomach, a clean place to live, or
a stable society to protect. India's noble effort
to industrialize may be defeated just as it is
really getting started. As Dr. Harrison Brown
has said, industrialization is possible "only if
there is at the beginning ... an adequate re-
source base, and a favorable ratio of people to
available land. It is a process which one can
visualize as having been possible in India had it
been started in that country prior to the middle
of the nineteenth century. But today . . . the
process would appear to be inapplicable. Success-
ful industrialization and population stabilization
in modern India require a drastically new ap-
proach."
Those are the stubborn facts, and one does
not anticipate their obliging disappearance.
Overpopulation is an epidemic far more danger-
ous to the welfare and security of India than
plague or cholera in the days when these
diseases were still beyond the reach of medicine.
But instead of being so regarded, it seems, with a
few exceptions, to be getting treatment short of
the mark. Emergency measures are overdue.
Harper's Magazine, November 1961
THE LAST
SUMMER
DAVID HOWARTH
The funeral in the country church was a year
delayed, and the widow could not attend — but it
was far from gloomy. Sir Thomas Beecham gave
the oration by the grave, and a blackbird sang.
TWENTY-SIX years ago, when I was
young and more self-confident than I had
any right to be, I went to a funeral in a village
called Lirapsfield in Surrey in the south of Eng-
land. I have known Limpsfield nearly all my life.
My grandfather used to live there, and now I live
quite close to it myself; but I have never known
it well. It is not on the way to anywhere, and I
have very seldom been there since the funeral.
But I went one Sunday, to see if I had remem-
bered the scene of the funeral exactly.
I had: I found the grave at once. It is right in
the middle of the churchyard, among others
closely packed in tidy rows. Limpsfield has
changed and grown. It is a village which house
agents call "within daily reach" of London, and
there are a good many middle-income com-
muters' houses now round the edge of it, and a
very new outbreak of bungalows. Evidently, it
has grown more in the last twenty-six years,
since I was there, than in the previous seven
hundred and fifty, since the square stone tower
of the church was built. But among the modern
houses, the core of the ancient village can still
be seen: the church itself, some medieval houses,
a fourteenth-century lich gate at the entrance to
the churchyard, and a beautiful eighteenth-
century vicarage. In the churchyard, there are
yew trees which look immensely old. It is winter
now, and when I went back they were dank and
mournful; but when I went to the funeral, it
was early summer and a blackbird was singing
in them.
The grave has a headstone now, and somebody
has planted it with heather. There are only two
names on the stone: no claim of fame, or
epitaph, or expression of hope of immortality.
The names are Frederick Delius and Jelka
Delius, man and wife; and the date of her death
is marked as the 28th of May, 1935. I must have
been there on the 24th of May, because it was
his funeral that I attended, and she died, if I
remember rightly, four days after it. He had died
nearly a year before. That was one of many
strange things about the funeral.
I do not know who designed that headstone,
which does not bother to tell a passer-by that the
man who is buried there was a great composer;
but a more pompous memorial would have been
out of place, because the music which Delius
wrote is always diffident and never flamboyant.
I never met him, but if his music is a guide to
his character, I should think he would have been
perfectly satisfied with a grave which is humbler
than most of the graves of the parishioners of
Limpsfield.
Delius was an Englishman, and we English
have not bred very many great composers, so we
are proud of the few we have; but to tell the
90
THE LAST SUMMER
truth, his father and mother were both German,
and he lived almost all his life in France. He
was born in Bradford, in the industrial north of
England, in 1862, and he died in France; but
before he died, he said he would like to be
buried in a country churchyard in the south of
England. This was an unexpected re(iuest, be-
cause he had never had any connection with the
south of England or, since his early youth, with
the Church of England. But it was perfectly clear
that that was what he had said, and so, after a
year's delay and some trouble with French official
regulations, his body was brought to England
and the ceremony at Limpsfield was arranged.
Limpsfield was chosen because Beatrice Harrison,
who was a cellist and a friend of Delius', lived
there. She was famous in the early days of broad-
casting for playing her cello at night in the woods
near Limpsfield, and thereby encouraging night-
ingales to sing into microphones which were
hidden in the trees.
There was a very distinguished congregation
of musicians in the church that morning, but I
am not a musician: I am only a person who likes
listening to music, one of those members of
English concert audiences whom Sir Thomas
Beecham has described, I believe, as not knowing
much about music but liking the noise it makes. I
only went to Limpsfield because I was told to go. I
was in the recording department of the BBC. and
the news department asked us to record the serv-
ice so that they could broadcast extracts from it
in the news bulletins that night. But it was an
assignmeflt I accepted eagerly, because the music
of Delius had been one of my early loves, if not
the first of all.
I find it very difficult to say why I like listening
to Delius, or indeed to any other music. For that
matter, real musicians are not very good at ex-
plaining what they like. But I must try to de-
scribe the emotions which the music of Delius
evokes, because that is the point of this story.
When I went to the funeral, I had not heard very
much of it except some songs and short orchestral
pieces, and one of his major works: "Sea Drift,"
which is a setting for baritone, chorus, and or-
chestra of a poem by Walt Whitman. I had still
to encounter his "Mass of Life" and his con-
David Howanh wrote "D-Day" ''The Shadow
of the Dam'' and other hooks. With a degree in
physics and mathematics from Cambridge, he be-
came a BBC and war correspondent, served in the
Royal Navy, and was a Master Boatbuilder until
1950, when he turned full-time writer.
certos, and to this day I have never heard any of
his operas, which I am rather afraid are dull.
But the short orchestral works still seem to me
to be the essence of Delius, and they are the
works which have lasted best and are performed
most often. "Brigg Fair" is one of them, a setting
of a Lincolnshire folk song. The titles of the
others suggest the character which is common to
them all: "In a Summer Garden," "Simimer
Night on the River," "A Song before Sunrise,"
"On Hearing the First Cuckoo in Sjiring," "A
Song of Summer." These are the images found
in a great proportion of his music: summer,
warm nights, calm flowing water, peace, gentle-
ness, contentment; and one must also add love
and companionship, because the music seldom
suggests a melancholy solitude. Youth is another
ingredient; at least, it seems so to mc. Perhaps
that is only because I heard the muSic when I
was very young. Delius was in his forties when
he wrote the first of it, and he was a sick old
man when he wrote the "Song of Summer"; but
it still conveys to me a youthfid sense of summer,
and now that I am in the forties myself, it makes
me think sadly but not unhappily of all the warm
summers and all the companionships that have
ever been. On the back of the envelope of my
present record of "Brigg Fair" there is a quota
tion: "The sorrow that lies at the heart of all
mortal joys, the bitterness at the core of all great
sweetness." That is very apt. Yet whatever one
may write or say about Delius, his music is purer
poetry than any poem in words.
THE BLACKBIRD
WHAT I have written so far is common
ground, I suppose, however badly I have
written it. These are the objective qualities of the
music, and it does not make much difference
what subjective pictures one adds to them, if one
has to add any at all. The music is evocative, not
descriptive. I admit that I always picture the
First Cuckoo in Spring in the woods in Kent
where I live, although I have read somewhere
a fact which I would rather not have known:
that the perfectly beautiful melody in this work
is a folk song from Norway. The summer is a
southern English summer, and the river is a
backwater of the Thames, or else that reach of
the Cam between Cambridge and Grantchester
where Rupert Brooke lived— before my day— and
undergraduates go out in punts and talk philoso-
phy. But it might just as well be the Seine, or a
bayou, if that is the right word, in the Southern
states; and either of those is a more likely source
BY DAVID HOWARTH
91
ol inspiraiicjii, because Delius lived on a river in
Trance and possessed a rather mysterious and
(juite unprofitable larm in Florida.
There is much to be said for having a
sort ol luneral a year alter a man is dead,
instead ol having it too soon. Some Africans
l)ury their dead with very little ceremony, and
I hen have a much bigger funeral on the anniver-
sary of the death. If we did it like that, the sharp
edge of grief would have worn away, and the
man's friends could meet to do him honor with-
out creating a public ordeal for the people who
loved him best and miss him most. The funeral
at Limpsfield was solemn, but it was far from
gloomy; in fact, as it turned out, it was a perfect
expression of the spirit of the dead man's music.
Spring was just turning into summer, and it was
one of those days when England, with all its
blemishes, is still almost painfully beautiful. Sir
Thomas Beecham had brought down a section of
the London Philharmonic Orchestra, and they
played the summery music in the church. I sup-
jjose nobody but a composer could have quite
the same privilege of communicating with his
own friends at his own funeral; it was a kind of
victory over mortality. Afterwards, by the grave.
Sir Thomas gave a funeral oration; and it was
then that the blackbird sang. I do not remember
what Sir Thomas said, but I am sure it was
appropriate. He was a veteran conductor then,
and an old friend of Delius', and he had done
more than anyone else to bring Delius to the
notice of the public; he remained a veteran con-
ductor for another quarter of a century. While
he was talking, I turned my microphone a little
toward the yew trees. Whatever was said, it was
certainly appropriate that a blackbird should
sing at that funeral.
But although so many of Delius' friends were
there that morning, his wife was not. She had
come over from France for the occasion, but on
the journey she had caught pneumonia.
I do not think Jelka Delius was a woman who
set much store by ceremony, but it was sad that
she could not come to that final ceremony at
Limpsfield. They had been married for over
thirty years. By all accounts, it had been a mar-
riage which had reached heights of great happi-
ness, and survived through depths of tragedy.
Jelka was an art student in Paris in the 1890s
when they met. He was ten years older than she
was, a tall, thin, romantic Englishman of thirty-
three, who lived alone without any visible family
ties and seemed to her to be aristocratic, al-
though as a matter of fact his father was a wool
merchant. She fell in love with him at once;
both with him and with his songs, which she
sang to his accompaniment. But in those days
Delius was a gay and rather feckless person.
Jelka was not the only young lady in Paris who
had fallen for his charm, and he had no inclina-
tion then for married life. So she settled down
to wait for him and woo him; and she waited
seven years.
Among all the incidents of that long inverted
courtship, biographers of Delius emphasize one.
92
THE LAST SUMMER
because it had a significance which was hidden
when it happened. Soon after they met, she
hired him to take her boating on the river in
the village of Grez-sur-Loing, which is about
forty miles out of Paris, and they landed from
their boat in an old deserted garden, enclosed by
a church, a ruined castle, and a rambling empty
house. She knew the garden was there; she had
painted in it several times before. But if it was
a stratagem to take him there, it only had a
limited success. He was delighted with its at-
mosphere of ancient peace, and declared that it
was the sort of place where he would like to
work. But he did not ask her to marry him.
Soon afterwards, the house and its garden were
offered for sale. Neither Jelka nor Delius had
any money, but she persuaded her mother to buy
it; and when they married at last, in 1903, the
house and garden became their home, and except
in the years of the war they lived there ever after.
When they married, their resources were small,
and their prospects were even smaller. Delius
had written a respectable quantity of music, but
very little of it had been published, and hardly
any of his orchestral or operatic work had been
performed. But as it happened, he was on the
verge of success. It is impossible now to say
whether it was through Jelka's influence, or the
influence of the tranquil garden, or whether it
was simply that a truly original genius will al-
ways be recognized in the end; but in the first
few years of his marriage, his music began to
catch on— first in Germany, where he was hailed
as a new German composer, and then in England,
where he was hailed with equal pride as English.
For ten years, Delius had many reasons for
happiness: success in his art, a beautiful home, a
wife who undoubtedly adored him, and good
health; and in that period at Grez-sur-Loing he
wrote his "Mass of Life" and most of the minor
works which are remembered best today. But
those were the only ten years of his life when he
had so many blessings. In 1914, success deserted
him and the income he was earning from royal-
ties disappeared, not through any fault of his
own, but because the war had started and music
in Europe had practically ceased. For the same
reason, he and Jelka had to leave their home and
mf)ve to London; and as both of them were of
German origin and the Germany they knew was
the indestructible Germany of music, it must be
supposed that the years they lived in London
were unhappy.
After the end of the war, before the musical
world had come to life again, he was overcome
by a personal disaster even more complete. In
1921 he fell ill. For three years, Jelka took him
from place to place in Europe in an increasingly
desperate search for a doctor who could cure him.
Sometimes their hopes were raised; but by 1925,
he was totally paralyzed and blind. She took him
back to the house at Grez-sur-Loing, knowing
that he was incurable and would always be
absolutely helpless although his mind remained
as clear as ever; and there in the garden where
she had taken him when she was first in love, and
in the house where his genius had flowered and
fame and success had attended him, she nursed
him for nine years until he died.
A SUMMER GARDEN
ID I D not know any of this history on the day
of the funeral, and I do not think I had ever
heard of Jelka Delius until somebody, as we left
the churchyard, said it was a pity she had been
too ill to come. I took my records back to Lon-
don, and broadcast parts of them in the news,
and that was that. But the next day, or the next
but one, the telephone on the desk in my office
rang three times. Three rings had a special
significance in Broadcasting House in that era;
they meant that Sir John Reith, the Director
General himself, was on the line. The effect on
junior members of the staff was as if the Last
Trump had sounded; I suppose he meant it to
be. He asked me if I had recorded the funeral,
and told me to take the records, and something
to play them on, to a nursing home in Kensing-
ton, because somebody had suggested that Mrs.
Delius might like to hear them.
That regal command made no allowance for
technical difficulties. Sound recording was a
primitive business then, long before tape was
invented. We used to record on soft cellulose
discs, and the only portable apparatus we had
for playing them was a clockwork gramophone
which quickly wore them out. Moreover, the
recording I had made of the music in the church
was far below concert standard; the acoustics of
the church had been difficult. So before I set off,
I went to the gramophone library and borrowed
the commercial records of my own favorite pieces
of Delius: "In a Summer Garden," the "First
Cuckoo," "Summer Night on the River," and the
"Song before Sunrise."
To excuse what I did that day, I must say
again that I was young. I was not much over
twenty, and young for my age, and I had very
little experience of life and none of death; and
so I just thought that if Mrs. Delius was ill it
might cheer her up to hear some of her hus-
BY DAVID HOWARTH
93
band's music, and I did not think in time that I
might be meddling with more prolound
emotions.
The room in the nursing home was darkened.
A woman took me in, and stayed while I was
there. I thought she was a friend or a relation of
Jelka Delius', not a nurse. I put my gramophone
on a table near the bed; and I hardly dared look
at the spare, drawn, motionless face on the
pillow, because I had understood by then—
though I do not think anyone had told me—
tliat she was dying. I played one of the pieces
I had recorded in the church, and the words of
the service, and then Sir Thomas Beecham's
funeral oration. The blackbird coidd be heard.
At the end of his oration, she turned her head
toward me where I stood in the half-darkness
beside the bed, and she smiled and said: "Dear
Tommy." That was the only time she spoke
while I was there.
When I had finished, I whispered to the
woman who was waiting: "Do you think she
would like to hear some music?"
"Yes, I think she would," the woman said; and
I put on one of the records I had brought. It Avas
"In a Summer Garden."
Again, I do not know the technical words to
describe that piece of music. BiU there again are
all the images I have tried to put into words:
love, youth, tranquillity, content; and superim-
posed on them, the gaiety of bright flowers,
biudsong, and sunlight reflected on ripples of
running water. The work ends in a shimmering
series of chords so soft and so remote that the
music seems almost not to move and not to end,
but only to dissolve as trees and flowers dissolve
in dusk when night falls on a garden. When the
last of those chords was ended, the woman said:
"I do not think she can hear any more"; and I
looked again at Jelka Delius. Her eyes were
closed and she was perfectly still, and 1 could not
read any expression on her face.
I READ in the papers that she was dead; but
it was not until many years later that I learned
a little more about the music I had played her,
and understood how reckless my choice had been.
That was after the second war, when orchestral
concerts began again in London, and I heard
"In a Summer Garden" again at the Albert Hall.
Somebody lent me the score, and I saw for the
first time the inscription that Delius had written
on it. Even now I do not know what emotion I
brought to that elderly lady in the last few con-
scious moments of her life: a happy recollection,
or a regret for love and youth long past which
is almost unbearable to imagine. "In a Summer
Garden" was written soon after Delius married
her, before the misery of the war and the agony
of his paralysis, and the garden it was written to
evoke was their garden at Grez-sur-Loing. At the
top of the score, he had written: "To my Avife
Jelka"; and he had added two lines which are
quoted from Rosetti:
AH are my blooms, and all sweet blooms of love
To thee I gave while spring and summer sang.
ANNE SEXTON
TO A FRIEND WHOSE WORK HAS COME TO TRIUMPH
CONSIDER Icarus, pasting those sticky wings on,
testing that strange little tug at his shoulder blade,
and think of that first flawless moment over the lawn
of the labyrinth. Think of the difference it made!
There below are the trees, as awkward as camels;
and here are tl*" shocked starlings pumping past
and think of innocent Icarus, who is doing quite well:
larger than a sail, over the fog and the blast
of the plushy ocean, he goes. Admire his wings!
Feel the fire at his neck and see how casually
he glances up and is caught, wondrously tunneling
into that hot eye. Who cares that he fell back to the sea?
See him acclaiming the sun and come plunging down
while his sensible daddy goes straight into town.
Harper's Magazine, November 1961
up to our necks in soft, white Suds
MAYA PINES
SOMEONE in the building was taking
a bubble bath, so— with a roar and a rush
of dirty water— great billows ol foam erupted
from a bathtub drain on another floor and
flooded a Park Avenue apartment. In Chicago,
on a washday, suds backed up seven stories in a
twenty-one-story building. In Suffolk County,
New York, home owners who turned on the
tap filled their glasses with water that foamed
like beer.
All over the country, in fact, people who use
synthetic detergents to keep clean are becoming
a menace to their neighbors and themselves.
So many of us now prefer the stuff to old-fash-
ioned soap for dishes and laundry that we may
well reach a point when we drown in our own
suds. For unlike ordinary soap bubbles, the
foam produced by synthetic detergents defeats
most efforts to destroy it. Even when it loses a
battle and disappears, the chemicals involved
have not lost the war— they may yet reappear in
somec^ne else's drinking water, or cause foam in
another place.
This stubborn foam is only a striking example
of the troubles man is bringing upon himself
with new insecticides, herbicides, lodenticides,
solvents, and other "exotic" chemicals, not to
mention radioactive materials. Their common
characteristic is most unwelcome persistence.
Scientists are only starting to explore what the
long-range effects of these chemicals— including
detergents— may be.
"This is a live and vexing problem," says Ray-
mond J. Faust, executive secretary of the Ameri-
can Water Works Association. "We're concerned
about it because the use of detergents is increas-
ing rapidly. They are only slightly removed by
sewage treatment, they get into the streams, and
we don't get rid of them in our water treatment,
either."
Foam eruptions have occurred so frequently in
apartment buildings, particularly on the lower
floors, that a few months ago the Douglas L.
EUiman real-estate company sent a letter to some
of its tenants, begging them to stop using high-
sudsing detergents.
"It has been proven by tests that a high-
sudsing detergent falling from the fifteenth floor
down the drain line will multiply 17,000 times
by the time it reaches the basement level," the
company wrote. "You can therefore understand
why this would back up into the lower floors."
The drafters of this letter have little hope of re-
forming their tenants, however. Once, trying to
cope with an exceptionally bad case of foaming
caused by a penthouse laundry-room, the
building management supplied low-sudsing de-
tergents free of charge. Few housewives ever
made use of them.
Ironically, foam is not essential to cleaning,
and sometimes even detrimental to it. A few
suds help, since one of the factors in washing
action is the reduction of surface tension to the
point where water can bubble easily, but this
happens even with the so-called "sudsless" clean-
sers. Manufacturers deliberately put in "foam-
ing action" merely because people like it. Most
housewives refuse to believe that anything is
getting clean if they can't see the suds; only when
there is foam do they know they have enough
detergent to do the job. Furthermore, "rich
white suds" look clean, inviting one to plunge
ahead and do those dishes. There is no psycho-
logical objection to putting one's hands into
them, as there would be with dirty-gray water.
Low-sudsing detergents have been fully accej^ted
only for use in automatic dishwashers, where the
housewife measures the necessary amount, closes
the lid, and does not look inside again until the
machine has turned itself off.
The people who have most cause for com-
plaint about suds are probably those who live
near sewage plants. They must accustom them-
selves to the sight of monstrous blankets of foam,
some as much as ten feet high, billowing over
aeration tanks, and to the wind wafting clumps
of the stuff right onto their front lawns.
This foam lasts extra long, for the greasy
solids in the sewage have a stabilizing influence,
and a strong wind can carry it half a mile away
from a plant. It will cling to any surface, deposit-
ing a thick black scum which must be scraped
away or jetted off with high-pressure steam. The
grass the foam touches turns brown and dies,
and the grease damages house paint. Los An-
geles' main sewage plant had to be closed tempo-
rarily a few years ago because its foam was
blowing right into residential areas, endangering
people's faces and eyes. Philadelphia residents
who saw giant bubbles and six-foot patches of
foam dotting their sky line after an ill wind
became so scared that they called the police.
Sometimes the suds are not even white, as
happened in New York City when some indus-
trial dyestuffs were dumped along with other
wastes. The mountain of quivering. Technicolor
foam which rose over one of the city's aeration
tanks was startling. Shortly thereafter, the Pub-
lic ^Vorks Department developed an expensive
new technique for spraying down and controlling
detergent-based foam.
Formerly a reporter at "Life" Magazine,
mostly in science, Maya Pines is now a mother and a
free-lance writer. She is the author of a book, "Re-
tarded Children Can Be Helped," and many articles.
She lived in Paris and London as a child but came
to the U.S. in time to attend Barnard College and get
an M.S. degree at Columbia.
SYNDETS IN THE WELL
ANYTHING that cleans is, by definition,
a detergent. Soap is therefore a detergent,
and so is sand, although the word is seldom used
that way. When people speak of "detergents,"
they usually mean the synthetic detergents—
"syndets" to the trade. Most of these are based
on petroleum derivatives, which are cheap and
plentiful, particularly one called ABS (alkyl
benzene sulfonate). ABS is so powerful that it
will produce foam at the low concentration Df
one part per million parts of water. This makes
it comparatively easy to identify; many other
exotic chemicals discharged into our streams
cannot even be detected by existing methods.
No such trouble arises with soap, which is based
on animal fats. These decompose rapidly in
waste-treatment plants and in streams; that is to
say, bacteria gobble them up, until there is
nothing left of the original waste. Petroleum
derivatives such as ABS, on the other hand, are
biologically "hard" and bacteria cannot fully
assimilate them.
"The dilemma of our streams is that man has
defied nature by synthesizing many new chem-
ical substances which nature cannot 'return to
dust,' " Dr. Rolf Eliassen, Professor of Sanitary
Engineering at MIT, told the National Confer-
ence on Water Pollution last winter. "How
much of an increase [in exotic chemicals] can
our watercourses take in the face of the expand-
ing population and expanding industries of the
nation? The medical profession is seeking an
96
SOFT, WHITE SUDS
answer to this. Meanwhile,
our currently accepted waste-
water-treatment processes are
not adequate to handle the
expected increases of organ-
ic pollution of the decade
ahead."
Of all slippery substances,
syndets are probably the
most efficient at covering a
wide territory. When they
get into sewage systems that
provide only primary treat-
ment—a settling process to re-
move solids— the ABS passes
through unchanged. In sec-
ondary-treatment plants,
which utilize bacteria to
break down sewage, approxi-
mately half of the ABS
passes through unchanged.
In rivers and streams, where it is discharged with
other sewage effluents, only a fraction of the ABS
is destroyed. Whatever remains and has not been
washed out to sea will ultimately go from one
layer of water to the next until it reaches the
cleanest ground waters used for drinking, where
it may last for decades.
As a result, many of oiu" waterways are subject
to unexpected foaming. The Wisconsin River,
for instance, developed nearly a foot of foam
below the dam at Wisconsin Dells one spring. A
number of scenic lakes and reservoirs are rimmed
by a tenacious froth which boils up whenever it
is agitated by an outboard motor.
Such situations are ominous in the light of our
looming water shortages. Even now, water flow-
ing down the Ohio River is used or reused four
to six times in summer. Different towns along
the route pick it up and then dump it again be-
fore it meets the Mississippi River. By the year
2000, if present trends continue, every drop of
water in the U. S. will be used six times before it
goes back into the ground.
So far, very few public water systems in this
country have had trouble with detergents in
drinking water. But people who depend on
private wells cannot ignore the problem. In
a recent study of individual wells in six widely
separated areas, the U. S. Geological Survey
found that 5 per cent of the samples had enough
AHS to produce "unpleasant characteristics of
bad taste, odor, or lf)aming," while another 15
fxr cent had "appreciable amciunts" of it,
though not quite enough to repel. In foam-
plagued Suffolk County, New York, residents
have described the peculiar
taste and smell of their tap
water as "oily," "fishy," or
"perfumed." The area was
built up intensively in the
postwar suburban housing
explosion. To cut costs,
many builders put in shal-
low private wells and septic
tanks. Such facilities, which
are much cheaper than pub-
lic sewage and water-supply
systems, usually work quite
well if there is at least one
acre of land per house.
When four or five houses
crowd on a single acre, how-
ever, somebody's well is
likely to be too close to his
neighbor's septic tank— if not
his own. And before long,
his water will begin to foam. When this happens,
the foam, for once, serves a useful purpose: it
warns the owner that his water is grossly pol-
luted. In the short run at least, detergents are
not toxic in quantities which one can drink with-
out gagging. But their presence in drinking
water means that the water is unquestionably
of sewage origin.
Wells that lie in the path of wastes from
"automatic" laundries are even more telltale.
A family 400 feet away from one such establish-
ment in Suffolk County found that its tap water
smelled of laundry and foamed vigorously when
shaken. Hoping to bypass these wastes, the
victim, a well driller by trade, installed a half-
dozen wells at varying depths and locations on
his property, striking suds at every try. Finally
the local health department took pity on him
and obtained permission for him to dig a new
well in a neighboring town.
A LITTLE MORE POLLUTION
WITH all the problems raised by the
synthetic detergents, one begins to won-
der why people use them. Not long ago we were
all content with soap, which served man admir-
ably for thousands of years. Syndets came out
after World War II and originally were meant
only for hard-water areas, where soap does not
lather well. Soon, prodded by relentless advertis-
ing and free-sample campaigns, the whole coun-
try switched to detergents. Eager to be clean and
up-to-date, housewives everywhere tried new
synthetic products with such names as Tide,
BY MAYA PINES
97
Dreft, Cheer, and Fab. Syndets now account for
80 per cent of all household cleansers. Hundreds
of them with slightly varying compositions are
on the market today, and new breeds appear
regularly. After the powdered detergents came
the liquid detergents, then the bar types, then
specialty items boasting bluing agents or fluff-up
agents to restore fabrics harmed by competing
brands. By now the average family which con-
scientiously uses detergents for its dishes, laundry,
and house-cleaning may add as much as fifteen
pounds of ABS to the ground waters each year.
At the same time, industry has taken to syn-
dets. It would be hard to find a piece of cloth in
whose manufacture detergents have not been
used several times. Trains, planes, dairies, and
food plants are cleaned with them regularly.
Altogether, detergent sales hit a new peak last
year, reaching more than three billion pounds
and $800 million, three-fourths of it in house-
hold products.
Soap-and-detergent manufacturers are de-
lighted with this state of affairs. From their
point of view, ABS is an ideal raw material. To
make soap they had to buy tallow— a by-product
of meat whose price varied according to supply
and demand— and add to it expensive coconut
oil. With detergents they discovered a vast
new world of petro-chemicals, always cheap and
in unlimited supply. Certain broad cuts of crude
oil produce ABS in any quantity desired.
From the housewife's point of view, synthetic
detergents undoubtedly perform better than soap
in hard-water areas, which include more than
half of the country. However, "nobody has ever
found anything more effective than soap in soft
water," according to E. Scott Pattison, divisional
manager of the Association of American Soap
and Glycerine Producers, which represents both
soap and syndets. "Commercial laundries still
use soap, and install water-softening equipment
to make it work," he points out.
There is a solution to the problem, but it
requires considerable public pressure. In Great
Britain, where the population is denser and the
situation is prophetic of what we may expect
here, the detergent nuisance recently reached
extraordinary proportions. Foam on some rivers
and canals became so widespread that boats
necessarily carried anti-foaming equipment along
with their life belts. In some cases the rivers
were no longer able to complete their jobs of
treating ordinary sewage effluents, because of
saturation with detergents. Alarmed, the Min-
istry of Housing and Local Government set up
a Standing Technical Committee on Synthetic
Detergents to make regular reports. Soon, two
new biologically "soft" detergents were pro-
duced. One is made from sugar, and the other
is based on a revolutionary type of ABS de-
veloped by the Shell Chemical Company.
While ordinary ABS consists of branched
molecules which intertwine and doggedly stick
together, the straight-chain molecules of the
new ABS are easily destroyed; yet they retain
the stuff's superlative wetting, cleaning, and even
foaming qualities. All detergents sold in and
around the city of Luton, England, now contain
the new, "soft" ABS as part of a large-scale ex-
periment being conducted with the co-operation
of leading manufacturers.
Nothing resembling these "soft" detergents is
available in the U.S. today— probably because the
public has not generated enough pressure. The
laboratories of American refineries and chemical
companies are full of similar products in various
stages of development, but nobody is willing to
come out with a detergent that costs a little more
to manufacture, as the British type does, while
competitors continue flooding the country with
cheaper products undisturbed. As one cynic put
it, "With all the pollution in the water anyway,
why should anyone pay three or four cents
more?" Unless the detergent manufacturers do
something drastic about this voluntarily, how-
ever, the situation in some states may reach a
point where legal action will be necessary.
Meanwhile, we can always go back to soap.
Harper's Magazine, November 1961
PUBLIC 8c PERSONAL
WILLIAM S. WHITE
The New Irresponsibles
A Conservative looks at the ultra-
Conservatives — and suggests why the
ultra-Liberals should keep out of the
fight to contain them.
\V A S H I N G T O N-An aberrant
and unique Right-wing movement
is on the rise in this country. While
it (alls itself Conservative, it con-
fronts true Conservatism, far more
than any other view of life, with a
still-distant but potentially serious
challenge.
It requires some calm and clinical
analysis. But such analysis should
come last of all from the throbbing
ultra-Liberals, some of whom have
in fact helped to start this prairie
fire. For all we need to set off a big
and nasty blaze indeed is for frenetic
Lifjerals to rush into this area. Their
capacity for auto-ignition is no less
high than that of the New Right-
wingism— which is not, of course,
"C>)nscrvative" at all. For the mo-
ment, I refer to these people as the
"Reactionary Irresponsibles," and to
(citain ultra-Liberals as the "Pre-
cious Irresponsibles."
To ask a man which company he
preicrs is like asking him whether
he had rather spend a long evening
with the local John Birch Society or
in a seminar of a Rather-Red-Than-
Dead group "chaired" (in one of its
favored words) by some melancholy
oner-man distillate of all that is worst
in this drcaiy lot. In such close
(piarters, the liirchers would drive
one to disgust; the ultra-Liberals to
sick boredom. Who wants to make
such a choice as this?
Still, since the job of inquiring
into the New Rightwingism should
fall to the moderately Conservative,
and since I consider myself more or
less in that category, I offer the fol-
lowing observations. For I believe
that the task is now imperative. I
have long held the view that all
such aberrations, whether from Far
Left or Far Right, should be met to
the last possible moment by a con-
spiracy of silence. If ignored, often
they will at length go away; if widely
commented upon, often they will
only wax upon notoriety. But it is
plain that this aberration isn't go-
ing away.
What is developing here is a polit-
ical nihilism far more complex and
sophisticated than any we have
known in my lifetime. Its anger—
and anger is the core of its motivat-
ing force— is large and ill-defined
rather than narrow and all too de-
fined as in the past. It is not caused
by racial malice, nor by religious
hate, as was the Ku Klux Klan move-
ment of the twenties. Again, it does
not feed specifically and solely upon
fear of comniiuiism, as did tlie Mc-
Carthyism of the late 'forties and
early 'fifties.
Nor is it "anti-intellectual" in the
sense that it scorns those who read
much and write well. On the con-
trary it both values and makes use
of these piusuits, these talents. This
is no Knovv-Nothingism, nor can it
he defined fairly as a hate movement.
It cannot be said to appeal to on
social or economic class at the e>
pense of, or in hostility to, anothci
For the anger of the New Righ
wingism is directed not against rac
or religion or class but against th
whole nature of the world in whic
we live. It rejects the whole pres^
—not merely that part of the presi
which all sensible men would 1
to reject: the aggressive inter
tional communism that arrogant
threatens all that we have and ai
The New Rightwingism does n
merely— and rightly— deplore softne
toward communism; it also recoi:
from rational recognition that the;
threats are terrible realities. Thv
it demands that the West give il
inch to Soviet imperialism— and i
the same time bitterly condemi
every practical step to prepare r
sistance, as, for example, foreig
aid. It obstructs a program for am
ing Turkish, Belgian, French, an
Italian soldiers (as well as our owi
to fight Communists if need be
and also suggests that the sponso
of such programs are practical.
Communists, or at the very lea
"pinkish."
IMPARTIAL AS RAI
THE new Far Right questions tl
value of America's association wil
neutrals (whether these be Sovit'
stooges or merely such as Nehru
India). It also fiercely challenges oi
association with long-proved Allie
some of whcmi, notably Britaii
have given more lives in fightir
\
For sheet pleasure,,,
a book to read^
to own, to give
/
/
/
z'
i
"^r
Humor
*9H from I
Harper's
Edited by John Fischer and Lucy Donaldson
Introduction by Ogden Nash
OUT of the pages of Harper's Magazine comes this
joyful collection of the witty, the informal, the
entertaining. The stories, articles and verse are, as readers
of Harper's would expect, wonderfully varied. But there
is one characteristic all share: each is fresh, funny and
enormously readable.
In time, these writers range from Mark Twain to Jean
Kerr. The subjects they cover are as diverse as Hedda
Hopper's TV spectacular, a baby seal that doesn't know
how to swim, the small kingdom of Lundy off the British
coast, snobs, children and the bibulous Fon of Bafut.
Some are old favorites, others (for many readers) new
delights. Sheer pleasure is what they add up to. And
isn't sheer pleasure what you would like to give yourself
. . . and, certainly at Christmas, your friends and favorite
relations? Humor from Harper's was made to order for
just that purpose.
A sampling of
the many pleasures
MARK TWAIN
Extracts from Adam's Diary
CLARENCE DAY
Mv Father and His Pastors
E.B.WHITE
Selections from One Man's Meat
JAMES THURBER
The Darlings at the Top of the Stairs
WILLIAM H. WHYTE, Jr.
You. Too, Can Write the Casual Style
GYPSY ROSE LEE
Stranded in Kansas City, or
a Fate Worse Than Vaudeville
C. NORTHCOTE PARKINSON
How to Tell When You Are Obsolete
LEO ROSTEN
Mr. K*A*P*L*A*N and the Glorious Pest
BERNARD DeVOTO
My Career as a Lawbreaker
STEPHEN LEACOCK
Mv Discovery of England
SHIRLEY JACKSON
The Third Baby's the Easiest
JOHN UPDIKE
A Wooden Darning Egg
PHYLLIS McGINLEY
A Quartet of Elders
A. B. GUTHRIE, Jr.
Nothing Difficult About a Cow
RUSSELL LYNES
The New Snobbism
ROALD DAHL
Madame Rosette
JEAN KERR
Aunt Jean's Marshmallow Fudge Diet
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104
You economize—
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Eastern romanticism simply won't
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That's why we pamper our econ-
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Your travel agent can supply all the
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'Including economy cur fare
AIR-iNDijtk
The atrlinc that treats you like a muharujah
New York to London,
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PUBLIC & PERSONAL
against totalitarianism, proportion-
ately to national population, than
we have.
It does not merely object— and
rightly, in my view— to vast and
dubious welfare programs at a time
when the one big welfare problem
of this country is its physical safety
in the Cold War. It objects to all
programs, good, bad, or indifferent,
which Avould cost any money at all.
In this sense, the New Rightwingism
has a marvelous impartiality: Its
rain of disapproval falls equally on
the just and the unjust— and on
every shade between.
It is, at bottom, against planning
itself, simply "as a concept, even plan-
ning for a hard line against com-
munism. Or, more exactly, it is
simply against government itself.
And, to illustrate its undoubted if
extreme candor, one among the
spending programs it opposes is the
federal subsidy for agricidture— even
though the New Rightwingism is
nowhere stronger than in the farm
areas of this country. (Joseph Mc-
Carthy, it might be recalled, was
never against the farm subsidies, but
rather for more and bigger ones,
never an eminent economizer in any
field, nor ever an anti-plan man, as
such.)
How did these people, these Re-
actionary Irresponsibles, get that
way? It is a diffictilt question, and I
do not delude myself that I can give
clear or comprehensive answers. It is
]:)ossible, however, to offer some
provisional and partial answers. The
mind turns at once, of course, to the
Cold War and the Atomic Era; to
the fact that this is the uneasiest in
all the ages of man. McCarthyism
unquestionably fed in part upon a
national disillusion that the second
world war had not brought that
worl(l-A\'ide peace and freedom for
A\hi(h so many had hoped. The Com-
munists look China; in many other
places they were sweeping forward.
A people convinced, absurdly, that
the war would solve most everything
(FDR's Four Freedoms and all that)
now found that it seemed to have
sohed little. Our national motives
had been tridy generous. So the C^om-
niunisi advance ol)viously was the
work of evil men on our own side,
ol traitors. This slate of mind, so
brillianily explored in the 'fifties by
Denis liiogan as a search lor dev-
STATEMENT REQUIRED BY THE ACT
OF AUGUST 24, 1912, AS AMENDED BY
THE ACTS OF MARCH 3, 1933, JULY 2,
1946 AND JUNE 11, 1960 (74 STAT. 208)
SHOWING THE OWNERSHIP, MAN-
AGEMENT, AND CIRCULATION OF
Harpers Magazine
published Monthly at Albany, N. Y.
for October 1, 1961
1. The mimes and addresses oj the publisher, editor,
managing editor, and business managers ore:
Publisher John Jav Hughes, -19 East 33rd Sireet,
.Mew York 16. N. Y.
Editor John Fischer. 49 East 33rd Street, New York 16.
N. Y.
Managing Editor Russell Lvnes, 49 East 33rd Strrct. New
York 16, N. Y.
Business Manager None.
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or holding I percnt or more of total amount of flock.
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partnership or other unincorporated firm, its name and
address, as well as that of each individual member, must
be given.)
Harper & Brothers (a Corporation)
49 East 33rd Street, New York 16. \. Y.
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Cass Canfield
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r o Bank ..f Npw Ynrk. New York 15. \ Y.
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c/o Irving Trust
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c/o Irving Trust
Marian W. Coward
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Mreet.
N. Y.
Co., 1 Wall Street,
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John Fischer
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Hartman
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Box 582, GreenwirJi. Conn.
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Estate of Henrv .Sle.^pcr Harper
200 East 66th Street. New York 21. \. Y
Trustee under the will of Lee F.
r, o Enimet, Marvin & M;irtiii
48 Wall St., New York 5. N. Y
Ravmond C. Harwood
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c/o Lucille H. Sherman, 8 Roman Avenue i
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256,564
HAnrEn's Magazine
Harper & Brothers (a Corp.'raiion)
John Jay Hughes, Publii-hei
Stvorn to and suhscnbrd before me this 29ih dr. ti,
.1 a gust. 1961
Edwin G. Uohren, Noiahv I
[SLAL]
(My comniission expires March 30, iy(i3)
PUBLIC & PERSONAL
Is, caused a far uglier Rightwingism
than that which now we face in the
'sixties. The New Rightwingism has
inot— at least not yet— gone in for
wholesale character assassination, or
for piecemeal destruction of the Bill
of Rights.
ANONYMOUS AS GRASS
ALL the same, though the danger
now is less acute, the problem is
more complex. For this movement
has no easily identifiable leader, or
leaders, or any easily identifiable
aims. This is another way of saying
that it is largely spontaneous, self-
generating, and that it is in truth a
"grass-roots" affair as anonymous as
that term suggests. It protests against
not one or two policies or situations,
but many: it is as bellicose toward
any extension of the medical-care
system for Americans as it is toward
the extension of Soviet communism.
The fact that it has no chosen
victims— such as religious or racial
minorities— is, of course, welcome.
Still this very circumstance pro-
motes the anonymity which nearly
rules out the traditional techniques
of opposition: first, identification,
then exposure, of leaders; then
argumentation against them. Men
in public life hear from many
of the Reactionary Irresponsibles as
individuals, true enough, as do those
of us who write for national publica-
tion. But in each such case, one
tends to feel he is in communication
with somebody who is a Follower of
a True Believer, but not with the
True Believer himself.
Again, the letters one receives
from these Reactionaries are both
like and unlike those from the Pre-
cious Irresponsibles, that is, the
Rather-Red-Than-Dead people. The
venom from both sources is about
the same, if perhaps rather more ex-
pertly distilled in that from the
professional ultra-Liberal. But— and
here is the distinction— the Reaction-
ary Irresponsibles do not, and prob-
ably cannot, clearly disclose the
source or sources of their twisted
philosophy. Nor do they maintain
any reasonably consistent theme.
A fellow knows immediately what
kind of mind is engaging him when
he is dealing with the Precious Ir-
responsibles. This is exactly the sort
A SQUEAKY GRAIN WAGON bringing a
neighbor's grain to Jack Daniel's Hollow is about
the only thing that ever stirs up our ducks.
CHARCOAL
MELLOWED
6
DROP
What attracts ducks to the Hollow is our
spillings of fine grains and cool, iron-free
water. But what keeps them here is our
quiet, unhurried way of life. You see, we
still make old-fashioned Tennessee whiskey
just the way Jack Daniel always did.
That calls for slowly Charcoal Mellowing
it to a sippin' smoothness. And that
"extra blessing" takes too much care and
patience for much bustling around.
O 1961, Jack Daniel Distillery, Lem Motlow, Prop., Inc.
TENNESSEE WHISKEY . 90 PROOF BY CHOICE
DISTILLED AND BOTTLED BY JACK DANIEL DISTILLERY • LYNCHBURG (POP. 384), TENN.
BY DROP
PTIOUvS
WtiM Aim
Merito
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PUBLIC & PERSONAL
of mind which in the late 'thirties
held that Hitler Germany and Cham-
berlain Britain were about equally
evil— until Hitler Germany invaded
the sacred soil of the Soviet Union.
That mind now takes the line, if
more cautiously, that there is not
really much to choose between
the motives arid purposes of John
Kennedy and Nikita Khrushchev.
It goes into transports of rage when
we resume nuclear testing. "When
Khrushchev resumed it, and acting
first at that, this Avas passed off as a
kind of inevitable act of Soviet self-
defense, or something of the son.
But the mind of the Reactionary
Irresponsibles on this same issue is
incapable either of such soj)histry or
such practical concentration on an
objective. The Precious Irrespon-
sibles work, consciously or not,
toward a situation favorable to im-
perial policies of the Soviet Union.
The Reactionary Irresponsibles, con-
sciously or not, work toward an ir-
rational objective that can only be
described as the slow destruction of
the power and unity of the United
States, in most any field you could
name.
In summary, they are in angry
flight not simply from the Atomic
Age, not simply from the Cold War,
not simply from disillusion, but Irom
current life itself and from all of its
intractable realities and unavoidable
restraints— from taxes and tonsillitis
to the military draft, from commun-
ism to overcrowded schools and high-
ways and crime and punishment.
This is not merely Brogan's devil
hunt of past decades; this is the
destructive withdrawal of children
from the playground which j^ersists
in being different, in every way,
from a playground of their illu-
sions.
For the Reactionary Irresponsibles
have no heroes at all, though some
superficial observers may say other-
wise. For example, the leader of the
traditional Right in this country,
Senator Barry Goldwater, is not
their leader. On the contrary, Gold-
watcT is himself the recipient of
some of their mail of denunciation.
However wronglieaded he may be,
he is a decern and responsible politi-
cian. Since ihey had already l)egun
attacking such a politician as Rich-
ard M. Nixon as intolerably "soft"
on (onmuinism, welfarism, foreign
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PUBLIC & PERSONAL
[id, spending, or whatever, one can
ly with reasonable certainty that
lioldwater's head will be next on
rtieir block.
THE USE OF LABELS
i O, just as the responsible Liberals
lave long suffered the curse of in-
'oluniary association with the Pre-
ious Irresponsibles, the responsible
iltra-Conservativcs such as Gold-
vatcr now fall under the curse of
nvoluntary association with the Re-
ictionary Irresponsibles. Labels are
iresome things; but they do have
ome meaning. At present there are
ix main political divisions involving
he terms "Lil)cral" and "Conserva-
ive." There is Conservatism in the
rue and classic sense, as typified by
he late Senator Robert Taft. There
is ultra-Conservatism in the accept-
able if myopic sense, as typified by
Goldwater. And there are the Re-
actionary Irresponsibles. At the other
end of the spectrum there is re-
ponsible Liberalism, as typified by
people like Kennedy and Hubert
Humphrey and Dean Rusk. There
is acceptable if woolly Liberalism,
as typified by such as Arthur Schle-
singer, Jr. And there are the Precious
Irresponsibles, who are either crypto-
Communists or imwittingly in com-
munism's service.
(I do not name the Reactionary
Irresponsibles here because I do not
know the names of those at the top of
the pyramid. I do not name the
Precious Irresponsibles because I
have not the resources or all the
legal proofs necessary to fight libel
actions.)
The New Rightwingism offers the
greatest peril to Conservatism itself,
if only because Conservatism has here
the most to lose. It is Conservatism's
historic role to defend ordered
liberty; and the New Rightwingism
menaces that most of all. Moreover,
in my view at least, it is Conserv-
atism's historic and unique obliga-
tion to defend that most vital
requisite to ordered liberty, the
maintenance of public and private
responsibility. This is so, as I see it,
because Liberalism, even the decent
Liberalism of which I have spoken,
does not always aj)prehend the deep
meaning of responsibility, perhaps
because of its preoccupation with
/ Was Afraid
of the
Child Stealers
Mr. Challagali, train examiner for the
Indian railroad from Calcutta to Madras,
reports, "I sav^^ a little girl sleeping
under a third-class bench. She could not
tell me about her parents as she was
only four. I feared the child stealers
would sell her to the beggars who cripple
the children or make them blind so that
they can arouse pity as professional
beggars. Her mother must have deserted
her because she was too poor to feed her.
She looked terribly hungry. I took her
to the police, although I did not think
anyone would claim her and no one did.
As I had brought her, the police made
me take her back. So I took the poor
little half dead thing home. But it meant
less food for my children and I knew I
could never educate her on my meager
income. I would have liked to have kept
her, but took her to the Helen Clarke
Children's Home."
Mrs. Edmond, the director of the Home, crowded the child in and
named her Prem Leila, meaning kindness or love, because she was
saved by a man's pity and kindness. Not only in India, but in a num-
ber of countries in which CCF assists children, there are so many
thin, sickly, little tots deserted by desperate mothers who rather
than continually witnessing their hunger desert them, hoping some-
one who can, will feed them. While so many of us in America are
overfed, half the children in the world go to bed hungry every night.
Such children can be helped by any gift or "adopted" and cared for
in CCF Homes. The cost to "adopt" a child is the same in all
countries listed below — $10.00 a month.
Prem Leila
Christian Children's Fund, incorpo-
rated in 1938, tvith its A12 affiliated
orphanage schools in ^3 countries, is
the largest Protestant orphanage or-
ganization in the world, assisting over
36,000 children. With its affiliated
Homes it serves 32 million meals a
year. It is registered with the Ad-
visory Committee on Voluntary Aid
of the International Cooperation Ad-
ministration of the United States Gov-
ernment. It is experienced, efficient,
economical and conscientious.
COUNTRIES:
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Puerto Rico, Scotland, Spain, Syria,
Taiwan (Formosa), Thailand, Turkey,
United States, Vietnam (Indo-china) ,
Western Germany, American Indians.
For Information write: Dr. J. Calvitt Clarke
CHRISTIAN CHILDREN'S FUND, INC. •
Richmond 4, Virginia
I wish to "adopt" a boy Q g'rl D for
one year in___
(Name Country)
I will pay $10 a month ($120 a year).
Enclosed is payment for the full year
□ first month □. Please send me the
child's name, story, address and pic-
ture. I understand that I can corres-
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I cannot "adopt" a child but want to
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NAME
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CITY
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Dept. 510, 25 Lafayette Ave., White Plains, N. Y.
PUBLIC & PERSONAL
another good but not synonymou
concept called reform.
The inside story of the breakin
of Joseph R. McCarthy illustratet
that point. It was Conservatism rha
condemned McCarthy at last, in th
Senate and then in the country. Th
well-meant exertions of Libera lisi
in the end did more harm than gooc
For in their understandable /ca
the Liberals wanted to convict M(
Carthy in the Senate without a lieai
ing. The Conservatives were onl
barely able to avoid this unfai
action; instead they caused the aj
pointment of a select commiitc
which, in full due process, brough
about the censure.
MORE THAN TREASO!
I have not idly selected the epithe
"Irresponsibles"* for the new Re
actionary Irresponsibles— nor for th^
Precious Irresponsibles, either,
consider it an accusation of rar
gravity, which in the most precisi
way describes their mortal offens'
against our political system. Th'
single greatest domestic curse of ou
times is precisely this— irresponsi
bility. It is this which we neec
to fear more than subversion an<
treason.
For irresponsibility runs amol
with a vague and terrible strength
terrible because it cannot be iden
tified and mastered. It is not man!
fested always in such shabby Birche
talk as suggesting that Dwight Eisen
hower didn't really wish to dele;)
communism. It is sometimes ni;i!i
fested in guilt-by-association tech
niques from the Left as well as th(
Right. There is, for illustration, iht
notion spread by some in recen
months that the whole of the mill
tary establishment, the whole of th(
"military mind," ought to be heh
suspect because some officers held o
spread Right-wing political views
Whoever irresponsibly contributes
in such an hour as this, to an uii
fair and generalized attack on the
military services is completing ;
dreadful act of discredit which th(
New Rightwingism itself began— b^
putting its unwelcome embra(<
upon those services.
* This was Archibald MacLeish's tern
in a famous declaration in 1940.
li
the new
BOOKS
PAUL PICKREL
Fiction. Non-fiction, and Pseudo-fiction
RECENTLY several critics have suggested
that the time has come for the novel to give
way to some other kind of literature. Just what
this new kind of literature would be they do not
seem to know with much certainty— presumably
some kind of blend of fact and imaginative in-
terpretation (Rebecca West's studies of treason
have been cited as an example). Meanwhile the
novelist himself, at least in his more despairing
moments, must often wonder if the time hasn't
come for him to throw in the towel. He faces
a society so complex and with so little sense of
community that he falters before the task of
reducing it to any sort of manageable propor-
tions. The envy that American novelists have
always felt of the neat and orderly worlds of a
Jane Austen or an Anthony Trollope grows
increasingly acute; and as other societies, in
England and Western Europe, become more
like American society, the envy spreads to in-
clude their novelists.
At the same time, the territory that thje novelist
can call his own seems to grow smaller and
smaller. His role as an interpreter of society is
increasingly undercut by popular sociology, and
his role as interpreter of the inner life of man
is increasingly undercut by popular psychology.
This change is reflected in the kind of catch-
phrases we use in conversation. Where a few
decades ago we were likely to adorn our talk Avith
references to literarv figures we are now more
likely to use the convenient abstractions of
sociology or psychology; instead of calling a cer-
tain kind of man that we don't like a Babbitt
we will probably call him an organization man
or an other-directed personality or a conformist.
Yet in spite of all this, and in spite of such facts
as that fiction commands a smaller proportion
of the book buyer's dollars than it used to, that
the amount of space given to fiction in most
periodicals is being constantly reduced, and that
literature of all kinds is losing the pre-eminence
among the arts that it enjoyed in the nineteenth
century and for a while thereafter— in spite of all
this, novels continue to be written in appalling
quantity, and rather more of them achieve publi-
cation than the most partisan defender of fiction
would regard as absolutely necessary for the sur-
vival of the art. The prestige of the novel has
not declined nearly so much as deploring critics
and self-pitying writers would have us believe.
Indeed a great many subjects are treated fiction-
ally when in fact they might better be presented
as essays or memoirs or even as nothing at all.
TALES OF THE SEA AROUND US
EUGENE BURDICK is an example of a
writer whose work straddles fiction and non-
fiction. His first book. The Ninth 'Waiir. was a
highly successful but undistinguished novel about
California politics; probably it would have been
a better book, though certainly less of a com-
mercial success, if it had been presented as
straightforward political science. Burdick's next
book, written in collaboration with William J.
Lederer, was The Ugly American, a thinly fic-
tionalized criticism of American diplomats in
Asia. Whatever importance it has is entirely poli-
tical rather than literary, but it is one of the few
novels of recent years that have successfully com-
peted with popular sociology and psychology in
giving a new term to our language, though
ironically enovigh a good many people who
haven't read the book use the phrase "ugly
American" to mean someone who does a poor
job of representing America abroad, contrary to
the book's portrayal.
In his new book. The Blue of Capricorn
(Houghton Mifflin, S4.95), Burdick frankly mixes
fiction and non-fiction. The subject is the Pacific
Ocean, and of the eighteen chapters thirteen are
essays on one or another of the ocean's aspects-
its currents, its birds, its clouds, its luiderwater
life, its ethnic groups, its conflicts of culture
between accustomed methods of doing things
and the new ways introduced by the ^vhite man
(especially by the soldiers stationed in the Pacific
during the second world Avar), the contrast be-
tween Asian and Pacific island cultures, etc.
Scattered among these essays are five more or
less fictionalized episodes, ranging from an ac-
count of what must have happened to the ninety-
eight Americans left behind on Wake Island after
the Japanese occupied it, which is fictionalized
no
THE NEW BOOKS
only when the historical record fails, to two or
three narratives that are, so far as the reader can
tell, purely imaginative. Oddly enough, despite
Burdick's enormous enthusiasm for the Pacific,
the best of his stories concern characters who dis-
like it— one is about a Frenchman who first .goes
to a Pacific island to escape the falsity of French
life but who ends up alleviating his otherwise
overwhelming boredom bv making minute studies
of the local culture, valueless though he finds it;
and the other is about a wealthy Midwestern
je^vish girl who mairies into an island family
and is appalled by the life she finds there.
So The Blue of Capricorn is a kind of mixture
of Rachel Carson and James ]\f irhener. The non-
fiction chapters are much the better part of the
book, and though they are not a match for Miss
Carson in beauty of expression or elegance of
observation, they are very much worth reading.
SCUM AND DREGS
COLIN WILSON is the young Englishman
who a few years ago at some improbably early
age produced a volume of criticism called The
Outsider. The book "\vas received in England as
if it were the latest bulletin from Mt. Sinai and
in this country as if it were the literary equivalent
of Typhoid Mary. (Both estimates were exces-
sive.) After a couple of other books Wilson has
now written a novel called Adrift in Soho
(Houghton Mifflin, .|3.50), a modest little account
of a young fellow named Harry who leaves
Birmingham for London in search of a more
exciting life. Harry meets a variety of spongers
and drifters and would-be artists, then a painter
who is the Real Thing, and the inevitable girl
who seems to be part of the city's cesspools but
who underneath it all is as unconquerably
bourgeois as our hero from Birmingham.
This is a novel that might better have been
presented as an essay. What Wilson is trying to
do in the book essentially is to distinguish be-
tween the authentic and the inauthentic outsider
—between those who separate themselves from
conventional society because they have some-
thing more important to do than to obey its
dictates, and those who separate themselves from
conventional society because they aren't up to it.
(Shaw made the same point succinctly a long time
ago when he distinguished between the scum,
which rises above the mass, and the dregs, which
sink to the bottom, though most people lump
both together as equally undesirable.)
Wilson hasn't much gift for characterization,
and the long passages he devotes to the dreg-
outsiders are fairly tiresome. After a hundred
pages or more of description of run-of-the-mill
bohemian life he frankly confesses that it is a
"bore," that "the Solio bum possesses none of the
alertness and enterprise you might expert: the
only characteristics the vagrant life develops are
vagueness and inefficiency." Uulortuiiatcly the
reader has independently reached this conclusion
long before Wilson states it.
Colin ^Vilson is at his best and liveliest when
he temporarilv abandons his storv to comment
on human nature or other subjects in a generaliz-
ing, speculative way. He has an interesting mind,
but it is probably not a mind that will ever find
its best expression in fiction.
THE OTHER WILSON
THIS Wilson is not of course to be confused
with another English writer and critic with the
same surname, Angus Wilson, who is both con-
siderablv older and a considerably more gifted
novelist. Tlie remarkable thing about Angus
Wilson's novels is their variety; of the four he
has so far published— f/rw/or^ and After, Angrlo-
Snxoji Attitudes, The Middle Age of Mrs. Eliot,
and the new one. The Old Men at the Zoo
(Viking. .S4.50)— no two are much alike; in fact,
admirers of any one book often find the others
unbearable, and when Wilson's name comes up
among readers of fiction the common querulous
inquiry is why does he refuse to write another
book like such-and-such of his earlier novels,
usually Anglo-Saxon Attitudes.
Well, The Old Men at the Zoo is another study
of Anglo-Saxon attitudes, but it doesn't greatly
resemble the novel that goes by that name. It is
set in the future (the 1970s), and concerns the
struggle for power among a group of men for
control of the London Zoological Gardens. This
struggle goes beyond the zoo itself to become
involved in national politics, as the president of
the Zoological Society (an aging "press lord")
uses tlie evacuation of the zoo to his own estate
to build up a war scare that he hopes will bring
him back to political power; it even becomes
involved in international politics when the zoo
is largely destroyed and England is (temporarily)
devastated by a war conducted from the Conti-
nent by a neo-Fascist coalition.
But beneath the surface struggle for power,
the interplay of conscience and force, the contest
between those who wish to serve the zoo because
they love it and those who wish to exploit it for
their own purposes, the book seems to be a kind
of allegory. The vast variety of animals in the
zoo's possession represents the instinctual life;
Wilson (as I read him, at least) sees man as part
of an enormously complex and interrelated
animal creation that is not only fascinating intel-
lectually but in some sense holy. Therefore the
attitude a man takes toward the rest of animal
creation is essentially the attitude he takes toward
his own instinctual nature, and the instinctual
nature of other men. He may deny it or honor
it, exploit it or destroy it, but whatever he does
he is defining his own character.
Wilson is wonderfully skillful at inventing
and presenting a variety of characters to embody
the various attitudes we can take toward the in-
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to be brought up to date in the field of animal behavior."
—JOSEPH WOOD KRUTCH. Based on the latest research
by biologists and zoologists, this important book throws
a flood of light on the behavior and psychology of
animals and compares their social organization to that
of man. 32 pages of photographs; drawings. $6.00
by ADOLF PORTMANN
"Serious, thoughtful, exciting and authentic."—
MARi SANDOZ. The heroic and tragic story of Indian
resistance to the white man, told for the first time in
terms of nine extraordinary Indian leaders whose great
purpose was survival for their people, or at least honor-
able death. "There is one great fault with this book: it
isn't long enough."— a. b. guthrie, jr. Illustrated $5.95
by ALVIN M. JOSEPHY, JR.
The
PATRIOT
CHIEFS
A Chronicle of American
Indian Leadership
MJg«g<itfjtlMM"H
■ i>it%ui| J HiUnrawiwiifi «iT;W>»i^-;'
A big, spectacular, full-color display of the exotic
birds of the lands of the Caribbean, shown in full-page
and double-page photographs that capture the unusual
beauty of plumage and foliage. A splendid gift for ruature-
lovers, with an authoritative text by the recent Research
Director of the National Audubon Society. More than
100 color plates; size S'A" x 11", $15.00
by ROBERT P. ALLEN
RIRDS of the
CARIRREAN
MARIANNE
MOORE
"Her criticism is as unusual
as her poetry,"— george dillon
Filled with her inimitable wit, her uniquely personal ob-
servations on man and beast, this omnibus volume includes
two complete books of poetry, Like a Bulwark and O to Be
a Dragon, plus many earlier poems, essays, letters, a number
of translations of La Fontaine, and the Paris Review inter-
view with Miss Moore. Coming November 16th. $6.95
A MARIANNE MOORE Reader
i»Diirt^y-»(nwwnww. .—«ni<»«iia <'iiiji*iwHiii?<i.i".im!ii mn mug w^
PETER
MATTHIESSEN
"He writes with grace
and sureness always."
—Harper's
A fabulous journey through a mysterious continent.
Filled with observations on wildlife and a breathtaking ac-
count of a voyage by raft down a perilous river, this exciting
book is "beautifully told; can be compared only to the writ-
ings of Bates or to Tomlinson's The Sea and the Jungle."—
ROGER TORY PETERSON. With maps and more than 40 of the
author's own photographs. $6.50
The CLOUD FOREST
A Chronicle of the South American Wilderness
III Bi.jmii »umii,!j>.m, i!'.f}.»irvm\'%\:id*,«xvjfi^viw,^rs!isiiij.'\i%J}3*i-i.jm:*m>mm-n<'
i«g.ii.> iiiiim.iiiiMmK«Mw»«»»g»«<M»»»«i.^w
ANGUS
WILSON
...incapable of producing
a dull page."
—The Atlantic
The astonishing new novel by a master story teller
is a remarkable tour de force. Switching from contempo-
rary English life, which he explored so beautifully in the
best-selling novels Anglo-Saxon Attitudes and The Middle'
Age of Mrs. Eliot, Angus Wilson now writes a story of the
future— England in 1970 in the grip of a totalitarian regime.
$5.00
The OLD MEN at the ZOO
mtf:»lK>^»»'.'»^h^V!»L.v^'S»i*iiiM<fi'J'f**>'»*.w>i^yf*'*e!(n'r.xttii,t
PATRICK
WHITE
"...the ear of a music
lover and a painter's eye."
—JAMES STERN
"Without doubt, the most extraordinary novel I have
read in many years of 'new' novel reading... every word a
masterpiece The one word which over and over again
comes to me, the most descriptive word about this very great
book— rapture."— LEO lerman. By the author of Voss, The
Tree of Man, and The Aunt's Story. $5.95
RIDERS in the CHARIOT
GRAHAM
GREENE
*'...one of the few great
Storytellers writing in
English today."
—JOHN L. SWEENEY
His new play— delightful and sophisticated high com-
edy on the theme of the eternal triangle— a complete de-
parture from the serious mood of his other dramas. After
a huge success in London, the play is scheduled for New York
production this fall. $3.00
The COMPLAISANT LOVER
UNG
An intimacy to share
Her thoughts might influence yours, if you will come along with us, Realites Maga-
zine, inside Europe. We'll take you into a World of new ventures, attitudes and
dimensions . . . into a World that tourists seldom discover.
Each month Realites takes you on an escapade with professional camera and pen
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always the things that make European living all-enveloping.
Be intellectually engrossed ... be entertained by France's foremost commentators
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collection of paintings and photographs ingeniously reproduced on heavy varnished
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Mailed from Paris each month, Realites is available in English-language or French-
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oughly fresh and rewarding experience of "living in Europe". . . for a year.
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THE NEW BOOKS
stinctual life. There is at one extrerm
the Curator of Mammals who is a
bottom a delayed Victorian and wh<
would like to see the animals dis
played in elegantly designed cage
that would safely isolate them fron
the spectators; at the other extrem
is the Director's daughter, a nymphc
maniac who dies as the result of ai
act of literal bestiality. Then ther
are the veterinary who is a marvel
ously clever analyst of the diseases (^
animals but whose relation with ht
own disturbed household is anythinii
but wholesome; the effete Curator
Birds who is drawn to whatever
perverse or outlandish or flagranti
exotic among his charges; the Seen
tary who believes that animals are
be enjoyed in their native settini
as little disturbed as possible; and
on and so on.
All this is brilliantly done, yet t
novel suffers from the very fault u
castigates. It is too clever, too coldl
intellectual and manipulative; it i
a plea for honoring the richness o
the instinctual life rendered s<
schematically^ with so much calcula
tion, that there is little room for th
free play of the instinctual life in th^
narrative itself. But at the very leasl
The Old Men at the Zoo is a novei
that an intelligent man can read
attentively without feeling that he ii
slumming.
A PLEASANT PARANOIC
ROBERT N I C O L S O N has al
read) published a couple of novels ir
his native Scotland, but The Whis
perers (Knopf, .|2.95) is the first ol
his books to appear here. It is a fine
little novel, the best thing of its kind
to come along since The Lonely Pas-
sion of Judith Hearne. The main
character is one Mrs. Margaret Ross,
an old woman who lives in a Glasgow
tenement on national assistance
(relief). In a harmless sort of way she
is crazy; she thinks that she comes
of a high-born family and has been
dej^rived of her inheritance; she
thinks that her neighbors are inter-
fering in her life in one way or an-
oilicr (they are the whisperers of the
title). She spends her time writing
elaborate letters to her case worker,
calling the attention of the police to
the depredations of her neighbors,
unmisking I^)pish plois, reading bits
;iiid snatches of all kinds of periodi-
C
'Recognition of
Communist
China?
i
THE ISSUE
ON WHICH
AMERICANS
HAVE BEEN
DANGEROUSLY
MISINFORMED
. . . NOW
CLARIFIED
IN A
CONCISE AND
OBJECTIVE
ANALYSIS!
Would American
recognition:
• betray our long-time allies,
the Nationalist Chinese on
Formosa?
• undermine the UN? alter the
Moscow-Peking axis?
• improve negotiation with
China and aid the prospect
for disarmament?
• increase American influence
with the neutralist bloc?
Robert Newman cuts his
way through false analyses and
passionate invective to give both
sides of this vital foreign policy
problem . . .
RECOGNITION OF
COMMUNIST CHINA J
WILL
NEVER
FORGET
CURIOUS,
PATHETIC
STORY
OF OUR
TIME
this story of Africa's great Kariba Dam
project, and the heroic struggle to save
50,000 primitive people and thousands
of wild animals from the threatening
waters ... a modern, real-life tragedy
as dramatic and exciting as fiction, by
DAVID HOWARTH, author of D-Day
and The Sledge Patrol . . .
SHADOW
OF THE
$4.95 Cloth $1.95 Paper
Illustrated, $4i)0
MAO TSE-TUNG'S PLAN
TO DESTROY THE WEST!
HvaAaxM
rmcM
By Denis Warner
The tremendous problems of the
Peking government — immense
population growth, three successive
years of famine, the breakdown of
the commune system and the back-
yard industry program — have
forced Mao Tse-tung into a des-
perate hunt for a scapegoat. He
has picked America.
Denis Warner, the briMiant young
Australian journalist who spends
most of his time in the Far East,
quotes from Mao's own writings
'and speeches to show how the meg-
alomaniacal Red Chinese leader
plans to use guerilla warfare In
destroying the West ... a plan that
is more sophisticated and more
complicated than Mein Kampf . . .
a plan that is now revealed in
HURRICANE FROM CHINA.
$3.95
60 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK 11, N.Y.
A-Division of The Crowell-Collier Publishing Company
116
JOHN DAY lOHN DAY
Digging ^^
for Histot}^
World Archaeological
Discoveries, 194S-59
By EDWARD BACON
"Easily the prize find for the
armchair archaeologist." — Karl
E. Meyer, Washington Post. "A
revelation . . . detailed and
succinct." — N. Y. Herald Tri-
bune. Introduction by William
FoxwELL Albright. Extensively
illustrated. $10.00
^ .V LOST
LANGUAGES
By P. E. CLEATOR
How Egyptian hieroglyphs and
other unknown written
languages were decoded. "Ex-
ceptionally able popular history
. . . Superb step-by-step account
of the procedures." — TVew
Yorker. 16 pages of photo-
graphs; in-text diagrams. $4.50
ART
PLUNDlill
The Fate of Works of Art
in War and Unrest
By WILHELM TREUE
The extraordinary story of the
wanderings of many famous
statues, paintings and art ob-
jects, from Roman times to the
present. "Admirable ... at once
sad and fascinating." — Times
Literary Supplement. 16 pages
of illustrations. $4.50
At all bookstores
THE JOHN DAY COMPANY
Nfw York 16
THE NEW BOOKS
cals in the public library (and ap-
propriating what she reads in
hilariously peculiar ways), accumu-
lating junk in her two filthy rooms,
and generally doing as she pleases.
By her own standards Mrs. Ross's life
is crowded and dramatic, though to
anybody else she would seem pitiably
Forlorn and isolated.
Then by means that it would be
unfair to reveal, Mrs. Ross actually
does come into possession of a con-
siderable sum of money, and her
little world, which, for all its strange-
ness, has given her an identity and a
olace to live, is destroyed.
The novel has one fault which so
lar as I can see w^as unavoidable.
After the collapse of Mrs. Ross's
world the network of social-service
agencies that takes her over succeeds
in locating her husband, who had de-
serted her years before, and reunites
them temporarily. In the latter part
of the book Mr. Ross becomes the
central character, and though Nicol-
son does a fine job of portraying him
(he is a real bum, utterly amoral; in
contrast to his wife he is a crafty
rather than an innocent milker of
the welfrre state), his characteriza-
tion lacks the brilliance that Nicol-
son brings to play upon Mrs. Ross's
mad world.
The Whisperers is certainly a
slight work, but it is thoroughly
novelistic, in the .sense that what it
has to say could be said in no other
form than the novel. Unlike many
of the works here reviewed, it is a
genuine product of the sympathetic
imagination.
THEME AND VARIATIONS
THE Canadian novelist Morley
Callaghan has been so thoroughly
rediscovered and so highly praised
by Edmund Wilson, Alfred Kazin,
and several other critics of eminence
that his new book, A Passion in
Rome (Coward, McCann, $4.95), is
(ertain to receive a good deal of at-
tention, especially from readers who
like me are familiar with very little
of Callaghan's earlier work.
Unfortunately the story employs
one of the most tedious cliches of
|)ostwar fiction: an American (in this
( asc a Canadian) arrives in Italy with
a general feeling of emptiness. He is
alienated from his family at home,
his \\(, (lose friends, makes a living
at his job but does not find it other-
wise very rewarding. Then he dis-
covers a beautiful Italian girl, falls
in love with her, and amidst th
timeless beauty and subtle civiliz;
tion of Italy she restores him to lit
This story, with either a soldier oi
a civilian in the male role and with'
anything from a peasant earth-god-
dess to a movie star in the femaU
role, has been written so many time!
in the last fifteen years that, if al
the versions were filmed, Gina Lol-
lobrigida, Sophia Loren, and all rea-
sonably accurate facsimiles thereo
would be fully employed to the agj
of ninety-five.
But this is unfair to Callaghan. Hi
employs the cliche, true, but h
brings to it a certain amount of in-
ventiveness pnd originality, and
good deal of psychological complica
tion. The Roman beauty with whoir
the hero falls in love in A Pas
sion in Rome is actually from
squalid New Jersey background,
though of Italian descent. She has
had a very successful career in the
United States as a singer in night
clubs and on television until some
kind of nervous breakdown made her
lose her nerve; now she is imprisoned
by alcoholism, by her lover (an agin
motion-picture director with no fu-
ture), and by her dream of herself
as a Roman lady.
Consequently, the hero must first
free the heroine from her sundry ser
vitudes before she can in turn free
him to live his life more fully than
he has in the past. This is obviously
a good deal more complicated than
the usual versions of the story, and
a good deal more worth reading, but
there remains a question whether
Callaghan has really broken the
stereotype or merely camouflaged it
with ornamentation. A reader's final
judgment will depend on how con-
vincing and how profound he finds
the relation between the man and
woman. For my part, I find it more
like the stuff novels are made out of
than the stuff life is made out of,
though Messrs. Wilson, Kazin, et al.
may be able to find virtues in the
book that escape me.
HOME TALENT
N O W for some novels by Ameri-
cans. First, Dangerfield by Barnaby
Conrad (Harper, $3.95), is one of
J
The Swivel Chair
One new year always starts late in
October. Broadway corrals its new shows
from their hinterland tryouts. All the
Fifth Avenues across the country offer us
the tempting image of an affluent society,
Detroit reveals the length of next year's tailfin. and
book publishers move decibels up the scale shouting
their wares.
This is star quality season. Carson McCullers
has written a new novel, Clock Without Hands.
Three weeks before publication it was already at the
midpoint of the national bestseller list "... a strong
contender for the 1961 National Book Award for fic-
tion." (Atlantic) Dr. Benjamin Spock has a new
book, Dr. Spock Talks with Mothers, for the eight-
een millions who own The Common Sense Book
of Baby and Child Care. Writing for the olers,
Barnaby Conrad produces the "one-volume 'five-foot-
shelf" of bullfighting literature in English" (Dallas
Times-Herald), Barnaby Conrad's Encyclopedia of
Bullfighting. John Jacob Niles, "one of the best-
known American folk song collectors *
(Publishers' W eekly), has compiled a
ballad book for all who take pleasure in
our heritage of folk songs, The Ballad
Book of John Jacob Niles.
And now there are stars who are moving into new
roles. They are the award winners, bestseller list alum-
ni, critics' pets of the recent past. They are writing
to new readers in addition to those who remember
their brand names.
Eugene Burdick began his literary career with
The Ninth Wave, winner of a Houghton Mifflin Com-
pany Literary Award. Next he co-authored The Ugly
American, a book that added brushstrokes to our na-
tional image, an admonitory adjective to our national
conscience. Now he is offering us what is through his
eyes a new-found land. It is Oceania in the South
Pacific. The Blue of Capricorn is the work in
prose that is often lyric ". . . transports the reader into
the vastness, the mystique of the post-war Pacific".
(Library Journal) For everyone who
will never see a coral atoll — here is
the experience. Here is a definition in
fiction of exile to paradise. Here is the
new Pacific man scrabbling for a foot-
bold at the top and the mud-caked Aborigine running
for the beneficence of a rain squall. It is a big world,
the South Pacific. It is a big book, The Blue of
Capricorn.
Charles Bracelen Flood began his literary
career with an award. Love Is A Bridge was a
Houghton Mifflin Company Literary Award winner,
I and a fair sample of the critical reaction
to it was the Saturday Review's "A first
novel of exceptional merit . . . Many a
~T^^K writer Mr. Flood's senior will wish in
^ vain for his sense of artistic discipline
and his sureness of psychological insight." Now after
explorations of the contemporary scene, he has turned
to the eighteenth century to the months of winter work
and waiting that produced a young American victory
at Monmouth. Among rfiany other things this is a novel
of what it was to be non-aligned in '78. Here is the
new Continental Army in all its disparate glory and
confusion; the British High Command — dedicated
party-liners with no lines of communication to guide
them; Indians, moving through foreign battles to
their own endless tribal warring. And the people in
the middle, who had just begun to prosper in a harsh
climate, who had not felt the urge to /~X (
fight for what they could not yet define. '^ ^^^r\s
Monmouth tells a new story of the
revelatory past.
John Howard Griffin, author of
the extraordinary The Devil Rides Outside and the
Book-of-the-Month-Club selection Nuni, enters the bat-
tleground of his own choosing in Black Like Me.
Inviting the challenge of life in the South as a Negro,
John Griffin darkened his skin artificially and "passed"
into another race. His book is shocking to the white
reader, and it is important to him, "... a telling testa-
ment to the realities of race hatred." (Virginia Kirkus)
Colin Wilson reached his own room at the top
with The Outsider, a book that caused new critical
battlelines to be drawn on both sides of
the Atlantic. Now he gives us a novel,
Adrift In Soho, a picaresque novel of
our time about one young man's initia-
tion into London's bohemia.
Houghton Mifflin Company, Publishers
WOlf
I
HIM
PUBLISHED
BY UNIVERSITY
OF OKLAHOMA PRESS
THE FUR TRADE
By Paul Chrisler Phillips.
With concluding chapters by J. W.
Smurr. This sweeping, dramatic
book depicts in rich colors the
most romantic of North America's
early enterprises. Two volumes,
boxed. Illustrated. $16.50
THE LITERARY
MEMORANDA OF
WriLLIAAl HICKLING
PRESCOTT
Edited by C. Harvey Gardiner.
These twelve fascinating note-
books kept by Prescott during the
writing of his famous books, The
Conquest of Mexico and The Con-
quest of Peru, are published now
for the first time. Two volumes,
boxed. $12.50
THE OSACES:
CHildren of tlie
Aliddle Walters
By John Joseph Mathews.
From the colorful past of his peo-
ple and from his own lifetime
among them, John Joseph Ma-
thews has created a truly epic
history. 7 he Civilization of the
American Indian Series. Illus-
trated. $7.95
Now at your bookstore
UNIVERSITY Of OKLAHOMA PRESS
Norman, Oklahoma
THE NEW BOOKS
those books referred to earlier which
might more appropriately have ap-
peared as a memoir than as a novel.
The main character, the Dangerfield
of the title, is obviously Sinclair
Lewis, and as a portrait of Lewis in
his last unhappy years, when his rep-
utation was slipping and his rela-
tions with other people deteriorat-
ing, it is a brilliant job. For some
reason Conrad has moved the scene
of the novel from Williamstown to
Santa Barbara, but many details cor-
respond precisely to Lewis' Williams-
town house— the white carpet in the
living-room, the upstairs workroom,
the geographical relation between
the house and the swimming pool,
even the picture window, though it
actually looked out on the Berk-
shires rather than the Pacific.
The little novel that Conrad
builds around the portrait of Dan-
gerfield-Lewis concerns a love affair
between the aging novelist's young
mistress and his son, whom he is try-
ing to get to know after long
estrangement. This is jerrybuilt, and
perhaps the whole book would fail
to interest anyone who did recognize
Lewis in the main character, but that
character certainly carries conviction.
Furthermore Conrad is to be con-
gratulated on having at last written
a book that does not once use the
word matador.
IN False Entry (Little, Brown, $5)
Hortense Calisher has written a
much more complex and subtle sort
of book. The main character (who
is also the narrator) never reveals
his true name, but he comes to call
himself Pierre Goodman and that is
the way he will have to be referred
to here. For some reason, which Miss
Calisher never tries wholly to ex-
plain, Pierre is one of those people
whose natures seem to demand that
they live vicariously, through their
ability to make a false entry into the
lives of others and to assume those
lives as their own.
Perhaps Pierre's proclivity is partly
accounted for by the circumstances
of his birth; though actually the
posthumous son of a worthless sol-
dier and a seamstress, he is born in
a great house in London where his
mother is employed, the house of a
rich Jewish family named Goodman,
whose name Pierre later appropriates
for himself. The Goodmans treat
<
him kindly, almost as if he were on '
of their own children, and so at th
very outset of his life he is placed i
a false position.
Later Pierre and his mother joii
relatives in the Southern Unite<
States, and here again Pierre enter
falsely into the life of the towr
Though his relatives are only re
spectable working-class people
Pierre, with his natural intelligence
his English accent and manners, be
comes a kind of pet of an aristocratic
old lady and a learned schoolmaster
who between them prepare him foi
a future quite different from what he
might have reasonably expected. At|
the same time he becomes a friend
of a boy from a totally different back-j
ground (the son of the town prosti-
tute) and through him learns a great
deal about the seamy side of the
^town's life, especially the activities
of the Ku Klux Klan— information
that Pierre is later able to use with
disastrous effect.
In adult life Pierre continues hii
role-playing, until finally he is caught
in a situation where he is found out
through his failure to know one cru-
cial fact about a situation that he
has entered falsely, and he at last
must make a true entry into the life*
of another person.
Miss Calisher writes a leisurely,
ruminative prose, full of generaliza
tion and speculation, shot throug
with intelligence and perception, oc
casionally so fine-spun that the mean-
ing escapes me, but often keen and
original. It strikes me as somehow
a feminine kind of writing and not
entirely appropriate to a masculine
narrator. ■
False Entry is no book for the|
reader who is looking for a spanking
good yarn; even the reader who is
willing to tolerate its slow pace, its
movements backward and forward
in time, the sometimes unexplained
oddity of its incidents, and the elab-
oration of style may occasionally
become impatient with the novel. I
am not always certain of what Miss
Calisher is uj) to, and I am by no
means convinced that the whole
thing is a success. But there is an
unavoidable impressiveness about
the book; it has a tone and a quality
of its own; it bears the mark ol
singularity, of an effort to do some-
thing significant and to do it in its
own way.
About five books
of unusual interest:
^^^ jud^^
A. J. Cronin
THE JUDAS TREE
In this devastating story of a supreme egoist, a doctor who is a great
novelist writes another great novel about a doctor. Never has the author
of The Citadel, The Stars Look Down and The Keys of the Kingdom
told a finer story. Never has his skill been so superbly demonstrated.
$4.95
Hortense Calisher
FALSE ENTRY
This arresting, stylistically spectacular new novel probes the mind
and conscience of a man who succeeds in entering into other people's
lives under false pretenses. Striking in content, with the action seen
through an extraordinary inner landscape, this book confirms
Miss Calisher's stature as one of our most important writers. $5.75
Charlotte Painter
THE FORTUNES OF LAURIE BREAUX
In this original and dazzling first novel, capricious, bright Laurie
leaves her genteel, middle-class Louisiana home to search for adventure
and fulfillment in love — an allegory of the modern American girl
trying to reconcile her natural wish to depend on a man with her new-
found independence. $4.75
Catherine Drinker Bowen
Two important musical biograptiies reissued in handsome format
m\
"^BELOVED FRIEND
The Story of Tchaikowsky and Nadejda yon Meek
With Barbara von Meek. This brilliant biography describes a strange
and twisted phase of Tchaikowsky's emotional life — his thirteen-year
romance by letter with his patroness, the beautiful Countess von Meek
— and gives us a key to his musical compositions. Included are
many first-hand interpretations of his works, and his frank opinions
of contemporary composers. $6.00
FREE ARTIST
A warm and perceptive biography of two of nineteenth-century
Russia's most interesting and important figures: Anton
Rubinstein, perhaps the greatest piano virtuoso of all time and a
composer of considerable merit; and his younger brother
Nicholas, Moscow's musical leader and head of its conservatory.
$6.00
At all bookstores *Ailantic Monthly Press Books
LITTLE, BROWN and COMPANY* BOSTON
Written by John F. Kennedy
WHY
when he was
a Harvard
THE NEW BOOKS
senior
ENGLAND
This is a brilliant /\ | |" 1%^*
appraisal of the ^1 1 ■ ^1 I
tragic events of ^k I V P^ I
the thirties that 111 I I I
led to World War \^ k ■■ ■ ■
II: it is an electri-
fying account of England's unprepared ness
for war and a sober and serious study of the
shortcomings of democracy when confronted
by the menace of totalitarianism. A best-
seller when it first appeared in 1940, this
important book won its youthful author
acclaim both here and abroad. Now repub-
lished by popular demand. A new foreword
by Henry R. Luce. $3.50
ENCOUNTERS:
The Life of Jacques Lipchitz
By Irene Patai
With Foreword by Andrew C. Ritchie,
Yale University Art Gallery
In this beautifully written biography, Irene
Patai captures the spirit, the emotions, and
the thoughts of one of the world's great
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A New Life by Bernard Malamiid
(Farrar, Straus & Ctidahy, S1.95) is
something of a disaj)pointmenr, not
only because of Malamud's generous
endowment as a writer but also be-
cause in this book he starts with what
seems like a fine subject for a novel
and essentially wastes its opportu-
nities.
The main character in A Nero Life
is one S. Levin, a New York Jew
with a sordid past behind him (his
father was a thief, his mother a
suicide, and he himself has only re-
cently recovered from a bad bout of
alcoholism). On the strength of a
newly acquired master's degree he
lands a job as an English instructor
in a small state technical college
somewhere in the Far "West, prob-
ably in Oregon, and there he arrives
with a tiny wardrobe, a si/able beard,
and an enormous conviction that th^
teaching of literature is the noblest
of callings.
The impact that so outlandish a
man wotild make on a complacent
conventional college commimity
should be fascinating to read about,
but in fact Malamud devotes most
of his novel to commonplace faculty
politics and adultery— intrigues in
which Levin plays an important role,
to be sure, but a role hardly different
from the one he would have plaved
if he had been an Anglo-Saxon from
Evanston with a father in real estate.
Levin's Jewishness (in a community
where Jews are rare) causes little
comment and hardly affects the di-
rection of the story; his fight for the
liberal arts in a technical college
never rises above the kind of pious
utterance on the subject that a col-
lege dean can produce in any length
desired on ceremonial occasions. Lev-
in's tendency to rummage through
other people's desks and to make
blackmailing use of what he finds
seems to strike neither him nor his
creator as morally reprehensible, but
it is not easy to square with Levin's
presumed moral awareness.
A New Life is not a poor book or
a dull one but it is wasteful, and for
any reader who enjoys in a novelist
the ability to make the most of a
situation it will be disappointing.
Night Song (Farrar, Straus, & Cud-
ahy, .'!i;.S..50), a first novel by a young
Negro writer named John A. Wil-
liams, is essentially a study in race
relations, developed through t
linked pairs of characters. One p
is Keel and Delia— Keel a Ng;
deracinated through the \vhite nA
education that his prosperous |
ents have given him, now trying
find his way back into being a Ne
by running a Greenwich Vill
coffee shop chiefly patronized
Negro jazz musicians, and at
same time trying to learn to tr
Delia, the white Avoman who lo
him; the other pair is a fani'
Negro saxophonist, Richie Stol
now far gone in drink and drugs
still a man of enormous talent 7
vitality, and Hillary, a white n
who was once a teacher in an
state New York college but who
hit skid row because of his feeli
of guilt after his wife's death in'
automobile accident.
The two pairs of relations^
move in opposite directions. K
learns that he can be a Negro ?
still accept Delia's love without ftj
ing that there is anything pervf
about it. Richie, on the other ha
rescues the white man Hillary fr
the gutter and with the help of K
and Delia restores him to health ;
respectability, but in the end Hill
betrays his benefactor.
First novels tend to be eit
underwritten or overwritten; Jc
A. M^illiams has underwritten
The psychological relations are
dicated without being sufficier
developed, though there is a g
deal of complexity implicit in tht
Besides, a character like Ric
Stokes is extraordinarily hard
present, for his force is supposed
come less from anything he d
than from what he is— his fullness
being, his sheer emotional pov
His quality is not conveyed w
sufficient vigor to make his betra
and end the powerful thing t
Williams ob^■iously meant it to
Williams is a writer of consic
able gifts and if he can do as v
with fiis first attempt as he has d(
in Night Song, he should be a no^
ist to watch.
EXP ATR I AT
FINALLY, a glance ai a cou
of novels by Americans who 1
abroad. Scarred by Bruce Low
(\^inguard, S.H.7.')) has a dirious 1
toiy: it was fiist written in Ftct
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THE NEW BOOKS
and published in France, where it
(inevitably) won a prize; now it ha«
been translated by the author intc
his native language.
But do not suppose that the Amer
lean Samuel Beckett has at last ap.
peared. Scarred is a very slight littl(
autobiographical novel. The mair
character is an American boy will
a harelip who lives in a small West
ern American town. The opening
sections deal with his repeated am
ineffectual efforts to persuade Goc"
through prayer to eradicate the seal
on his lip, and his resulting religiouj
doubts; these sections are no bettei
and no worse than reams of such
writing turned out in "creative writ
ing" courses in colleges all over the
country. The later part of the booli
concerns the scarred boy's theft ol
Stamps from the one other boy whc
»has befriended him; this situatior
is a good deal subtler and more pene
trating. Neither boy understands his
own actions and emotions; both an
trapped in painful and apparently
insoluble positions, isolated by guilt
and suspicion when they need eacli
other most. There is at least th^
material for a good short story her^|^on
but hardly enough to sustain a nove
F
as
ii
liom
Rosalie Packard, author of Love \i
Question (Houghton Mifflin, $3.50JL
is an American by birth who nom
lives in England. Her heroine, Sar|Titi
Finch, is the daughter of a famou
beauty by the first of her many maij|Slf
riages, and of a father who is seldor
home and takes little interest in h^p
when she is there. Sara has drifte
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finding them satisfactory; she ha
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of a dull married man when his bus
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to London. In time her life becom(
such a mess that, under the influenc
of a friend, she betakes herself to
psychiatrist. After a certain numb(
of sessions with him she goes for
weekend to the north of Englan
where she meets and falls in lo)
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ing-class background but a promisir
future. Since he falls in love with h(
too, everything is fine. Sweet are t
uses of psychiatry
Love in Question is slick a
superficial, but those readers w
can believe in it will doubtless fi
it enjoyable. | ^^\
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^liSCRIBNERS
THE MASTER JOURNALIST
OF AMERICAN FICTION
By Louis Auchincloss
A Review of Mark Schorer's Biography of Sinclair Lewis
Louis Auchincloss is the author of
"'The House of Five Talents' and
other novels, and of a book of essays,
"Reflections of a Jacobite."
Sinclair Lewis kept a diary as a
youth, into which he poured, not
merely his impressions of sights and
events, but, to the extent he was
able, those sights and events them-
selves. It was never his method to
devour his material and brood upon
it until it revealed a pattern. He
tried to get it down, in the words of
his biographer, Mark Schorer, "in
all its external variety on the ex-
ternal page in order to have it there
for an external use." He was to find
this same method, as a novelist, his
greatest asset and ultimate liability.
It was to make him the master
journalist of American fiction.
In Sinclair Lewis: An American
Life (McGraw-Hill, $10), Schorer
traces Lewis' preparations for each of
his major novels. For Babbitt he
drew maps of Zenith and floor plans
of houses and familiarized himself
with the business of real-estate
brokers. For Arroiosmith he engaged
the full-time services of an expert
bacteriologist and roamed the Carib-
bean to select a site for his plague.
For Elmer Gantry he attended
clerical conventions, revivalist meet-
ings, and even lived for a time with
a minister's family. He drew up
biographies of his principal charac-
ters and compiled vital statistics of
the towns in which they lived. When
his research had been completed and
his scenario prepared, the novel
could more or less write itself.
For he was passionately intent on
no less a project than that of re-
producing the contemporary Ameri-
can scene. He was firmly in the
tradition of Bal/ac and, having been
formed before I'JH, was set off from
the younger writers who mature
during the first world war, besic
whom Schorer finds his vision of a
older America slightly old-fashione(
But this earlier forming kept hii
clear of postwar disillusionment an
later, of the lure of the proletari
novel. The Communists had hop
for Lewis, but had to give him u
In an impressive summation Schor
* points out that the main source
Lewis' satire lies in the America
defection from the American p
tentiality for freedom. The targe
of his fiction were all the means I
which Americans have betraye
themselves: economic system, inte
lectual rigidity, theological dogm
class convention, racial prejudic
materialism, social timidity, hypo
risy, affectation, complacency, ar
pomposity. In the conflict betwee
Lewis' ideas of the true America ar
the false, the former may see
provincial, even Philistine, but t
latter we all immediately recogniz
Schorer ends with the judgment thi
if Lewis was one of the worst write
in modern American literature, it
still impossible to imagine th
literature without him. Withoi
him, he even maintains, it is almo
impossible to imagine ourselves.
Why was Lewis so bad a write
Because his style is slipshod ar
slang-ridden when it is not prete
tious or purple. Because his taste
as ordinary as his Carol Kennicott
Because he is himself the best pro
that his charges against America
just. Because he has little to su
stitute for Main Street but the ang
with which he destroys it. Becau
his concept of love is at best sen
ment and at worst drivel. Jam
Fenimorc Cooper complained of
earlier America that it had no foUi
for the satirist beyond the mc
vulgar and commonplace. It m
have been Lewis' glory that
showed what a satirist could do wilh
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A Time
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The Epic of the Alamo
Seen As a Great
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By WALTER LORD
Author of A Night to Remember
and The Good Years
«
'/ commend it to every literate American.
— Adlai E, Stevenson
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By WILLIAM
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Foreword by ADLAI E. STEVENSON
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Realism in the history of the South
The Growth of
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1790-1860
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THE M.\STER JOURNALIST
such follies, but they Avere ultimately
to swamp him. His later novels are
dreary inventories of the often petty
things that aroused his ire. He al-
ways maintained that there was a dis-
tinction in his mind between his
serious fiction and the pulp that he
urote commercially for magazines,
"whoring" as he called it, but
Schorer notes that the same attitudes
are present in both and that the
larger sums came from the more
serious works. Basically. Lewis
Avanted to see every Avord that he
Avrote in print and in as many edi-
tions as possible. Of the great bulk
of his fiction, only a small fraction is
enduring, yet this fraction is as large
as the total output of Fitzgerald or
of Hemingway.
Mary Colum wrote: "AN'^e have in
his work a perfect example of what
happens to significant material
Ijassed through a mind that is not
significant. He labels the material
instead of transforming it." The
(]ucstion of the insignificant mind
brings us to the core of his biogra-
pher's problem. Lewis' five impor-
tant novels: Main Street. Babbitt,
Arroivsmith, Elmer Gantry, and
Dodsivorth Avere published Avithin a
period of nine years: 1920 to 1929.
The preceding fiction is Avithout
promise of talent and the subsecjuent
' almost Avithout reminders of it. Yet
I hose nine years comprise onh a
seventh of LeAvis' life, and .Schorer
is left Avith the heavy documentation
of the other decades and a disheart-
ening heap of novels, short stories,
Inlays, poems, and essays. Undaunted,
he tackles his task Avith prodigious
industry and painstaking organiza-
tion. .\s he said in an article about
writing the book:
"I knoAv more ab(nit the life of
Sinclair Lewis, day by day, some-
times hour by hour, than he himself
could possibly have knoAvn."
^\'hen he has finished, the man
and his work stand before us in their
place in American literature with a
vividness and a completeness that is
rare indeed in biograjjhy. One can
only Avish that Schorer had picked
a greater subject for the accumula-
tion of what he calls "this enormous
hoard of fact." For biography is al-
Avays a joint undertaking. ^Vhere
would Boswell have been with a
Johnson whf) Avas a drunk and a
bore? Sinclair Lewis at his worst
can drag doAsn Schorer's Avork to th(
level of Gene FoAvler's.
"RED" LEAVIS Avas general!^
disliked from the start. He com
pensated for his ugliness, his povert\
and the lack of sympathy in hi
family circle by the disastrous ex
pedient of being cocky and abusive
In the boarding house at Oberlii
College his only retort to any at
tempt at discussion Avas: ""Whert
ignorance is bliss, 'tis folly to b(
Avise." .\t Yale they called hin
"God Forbid," and the contempt <^
his more affluent, smooth-man nerd
Eastern classmates desperately hyi
him. He ahvays Avanted to conqucj
Yale, and the ultimate donation a
his manuscripts to the Sterling Lj
brary may have been the fini
gesture of this ambition. It avo
be easy to sympathize with his yo
ful unhappiness if his brashness a
arrogance did not repel the rea
as they once repelled his contemj
raries. Success only made him woi
"Do you realize you're talking t
fifty-thousand-dollar-a-year man?'
shouted at a hotel clerk Avho in;
cently asked his name.
.And then came the drinking,
restless Avandering, the fits of
teria, the threats of suicide,
interminable monologues at par
the terror of being alone, the
pity, the pinching that turned
promiscuity. Tavo Avives found
impossible to live Avith; two
found him neglectful. He alien
his oldest and most faithful frie
He A\as stingy with money
Avith acknoAvledgments, refusin
give Dr. Paul de Kruif the
recognition for his collaboratio
Arroiosmith Avhich the latter
justifiabh requested. And he
insolent to everybody, everyw
"My God, I've never seen so r
chastity in one place!" he exclai
to his spinster hostess in the di
room of a Avomen's club. His
ings with other celebrities
sparked Avith recriminations,
Avith Dreiser he actually cam
bloAvs. Death Avas finally broughi
by his stubborn disregard of me
Avarnings about alcohol.
Of course, there were redee
features. He had an attractive
ihusiasm for younger Avriters
liked to help them. He had a
sionate, if (juickly waning, curi
about other people. He was con-
sistently on the sitle of the underdog.
He was devoid of snobbishness in
his selection of friends. He could be
extremch funnv, as when he said of
Dorothx Thom])son, that if he ever
divorced ho, he would name Hitler
as co-respondent. And, in spite of
everything, he had a quality of sweet-
ness that made up for much of his
churlishness. Schorer adds that his
"most intimately personal feelings"
were kindh, but is that not true of
us all? Did not even Lewis' threat-
ened co-respondent weep as he drove
through the devastated streets of
Warsaw?
WE live in an age of files and
records. The microfdm and the tape-
recorder overwhelm the biographer.
The past is in danger of being lost
in trivia unless a new Strachcy
teaches us a new art of selection.
Schorer's book bristles with countless
examples of Lewis' quixotic be-
havior, but he is markedly rcti(cnt
in his theories to explain it. Once
he ventures the opinion thai the
conflict in Lewis between esteem for
his father and resentment against
him was the source of the split in his
personality between the raucous
rebel and the Babbitt, and in an-
other place he specidates that Lewis'
habit of abusing his wife immedi-
ately after making love to her may
have sprung from his dislike of the
body— his own and everyone else's.
But he also states that any discussion
of the reasons for the high propor-
tion of sexually frigid women in
Lewis' fiction is beyond the scope of
his work.
Here he seems to approach the ex-
treme position that a biographer's
duty is simply to accumidate all the
facts and leave their evaluation to
posterity. In an age that is rife with
facile psychological judgments, one
hesitates to encourage the amateur,
but it is nonetheless a dry business to
be left in a desert of psychological
symptoms without the relief of a
theory. I want to know either more
or less about Lewis' bad habits.
Sneezes are interesting only in their
relation to hay fever or the common
cold.
Next month, Katherine Gauss
Jackson will return to these pages
with her revieivs of "Books in Brief."
The Dimensiotts of Liberty
By Oscnr Haiulliii. Winner of the Pulitzer Prize for History, and
Mary Handlin. An orifiinal in(|uiry into what liberty has actually meant
in America — how it devehjped, not in negation of force, but as a mode in
which force and power were to he used. As the initial volume in a series to be
published for the Center for the Stufly of the History of Liberty in America,
it begins a systematic recording of the many factors — among them wealth,
religion, government, social mobility, and immigration — which have deter-
mined, sustained, or even impaired liberty since colonial times. A Belknap
Press Book $3.75
Holtnes 'Poiloeh Letters
THE CORRESPONDENCE OF MR. JL'STltE HOLMES AND SIR FREDERICK POLLOCK,
1874-1932
Second Edition
Edited by Mark DeWolfe Howe — with introductions by John Gorham
Palfrey and -Sir John Pollock, Bart. "A cultural document of first importance,"
said Justice Frankfurter of tiie original edition of this famous correspondence,
now reissued with a special essay by .Sir John Pollock, son of Sir Frederick.
Delightful reading as well, the letters will appeal "to anyone interested in
the play of two first-rate minds" (Clifton Fadiman, The New Yorker).
A Belknap Press Book Two volumes in one, $10.00
Rift and Mtevott in Hungary
NATIONALISM VERSUS COMMUNISM
By Ferenc A. Vdli. An insider's vivid view that is also the first solidly docu-
mented analysis of Soviet domination in Hungary, before, during, and since
the 1956 Revolution. Mr. Vali is peculiarly qualified to write such a volume:
an international lawyer and political scientist, he was arrested by the Hungarian
Security Police and spent five years of his life in Budapest prisons. Harvard
Center for International Affairs. Charts. $9.75
It
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MUSIC in the round
BY DISCUS
THE ILLUSIONS OF OPERA
The autobiography of a brash idea
man, the most engaging score in musi-
cal history, and a performance close
to the real thing . . .
Up to February 19, 1816, the
Barber of Seville meant two
things— either the play by Beaumar-
chais, or the opera by Paisiello. That
was the night before the premiere of
the Rossini opera. Partisans of Paisi-
ello packed the Argentina Theatre
in Rome and created enough of a
fuss to prevent the success of the new
opera. But it made no difference.
After a short time, Rossini's opera
buff a swept Europe and also swept
the Paisiello opera from the boards.
Rossini had composed the greatest
opera of its kind, and so it has re-
mained. He wrote the work in white
heat, and later claimed that the
entire score had been finished in
thirteen days. (Donizetti's remark,
when he heard of this feat, was:
"Yes, but then Rossini was always
a lazy fellow.")
Much has been written about
Rossini and the Barber. Opera-goers
know less about the remarkable fig-
ure of Beaumarchais, the dramatist
from whose play the opera comes. He
had written Le Barbier de Seville in
1775, and some of it is autobiograph-
ical. Figaro represents Beaumarchais
himself, and the two "barber" plays
(Le Mariage de Figaro, set by Mozart,
was the other) are his personal gibe
at the aristocracy. In his own life
Beaumarchais, who was born of
humble jjarcnts, managed to turn the
aristocracy to his own ends. And in
his plays there is the figure of a
barber who is constantly outwitting
the nobility and laughing at them
behind their backs. Many have read
into the Beaumarchais plays the
events and the stagnation that were
to lead to the Freruh Revolution. It
is prol>ably a correct reading.
When Rossini composed his opera
the French Revolution had long since
taken place. (Well, about twenty
years previously.) Rossini, the least
social-conscious of composers, and
one of the most self-confident, cer-
tainly did not regard his libretto as a
social document (whereas there is
every indication that Mozart, who
suffered from the aristocracy, did).
He merely whipped right through it,
emphasizing the buffa elements.
None of his characters have much
dimension, as Mozart's did. At the
sarne time, his characters are recog-
nizable types, over whom looms
Figaro: the brash idea man, the only
one with any brains, the character
who can sell an icebox to the Eskimos
and the NAM to the Russians.
All this would be beside the point
if the music were weak. But musical
history does not show a more engag-
ing, more bubbling and good-na-
tured score. Rossini had an Italian,
irrepressible joie de vivre that ani-
mates every note of II Barbiere di
Siviglia. And a new recording of this
great score successfully captures that
feeling.
Leading singers in the cast are
Gianna d'Angelo (Rosina), Renato
Capecchi (Figaro), Giorgio Tadeo
(Bartolo), Carlo Gava (Basilio), and
Nicola Monti (Almaviva). Bruno
Bartoletti conducts the Symphony
Orchestra of the Bavarian Radio
(Deutsche Grammophon 18665/7,
mono, 3 discs; 138665/7, stereo, 3
discs). The orchestra is a German
one, but the cast is primarily made
up of singers from La Scala. Gianna
d'Angelo is the exception. Her name
is Italian, but she is a young lady
from Hartford, Connecticut, who
made her Metropolitan Opera debut
last season to a resoundingly approv-
ing press.
She sounds like a lovely singer.
Her voice is clear, flute-like, and easily
produced. What is more, her char-
acterization of Rosina has pertness
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130
What's New
in High FideUty
by Edward Tatnall Canby
High Fidelity Means
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To me, High Fidelity means music well played,
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ducing equipment for my listening — component
stereo high fidelity.
Yes, I can enjoy Mozart on my kitchen radio
and so can you. But Mozart has much more to
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1 cannot imagine my own serious (or light-
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NAME
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» BOSTON
MUSEUM
Christmas Cards
Ar\ unusual new group of
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Gift suggestions including
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Catalogue available October 1.
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Please send me the Museum's 1961
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MUSIC IN THE ROUND
and personality. Her precise and
sensitive work is quite a contrast to
that of Monti. The tenor does not
have a bad voice, but his coloratura
work is sloppy, and his style is a long
way from being a cultivated one. He
could do much better; like so many
Italian tenors, he just does not think.
There can be nothing but praise
for the others in the cast, all of
whom are excellent singers well
versed in the Rossini style. So is the
conductor, who up to now has not
been represented on any important
American records. His tempos are
well chosen— both in regard to the
singers, and in regard to the nature
of the music. // Barbiere sparkles
under his direction; and this can be
considered the best all-around ver-
sion of the opera ever recorded. The
Victor set conducted by Leinsdorf,
true, is more complete, for Leinsdorf
opened up some traditional cuts; and
in both the Capitol and London
albums, Simionato and de los An-
geles, respectively, sing the role of
Rosina in the original mezzo regis-
ter. But none of those versions have
the spirit, ensemble, and general
teamwork of the new Barbiere. Nor
have they its extremely realistic re-
corded sound. The German engi-
neers have gone in for unusually con-
vincing separation effects. When
Almaviva starts Ah che d'amore from
the left speaker, and Figaro chimes
in a few measures later with DeJJc
monete il suon gia sento from the
right speaker, the illusion of opera
can be carried no further. Illusion?
It's comfortably close to the real
thing.
Few Are Chosen
Another Italian opera, this one
recorded with three Americans in the
leading roles, is the new album of
Verdi's La Traviata (Victor LM 6154,
mono, 3 discs; LSC 6154, stereo, 3
discs). Anna Moffo is the Violetta,
Richard Tucker the Alfredo, and
Robert Merrill the Germont. The
Rome Opera House Orchestra and
Chorus are conducted by Fernando
Previtali.
All sopranos try Violetta; few are
chosen. It is a difficult role— colora-
tura in Act I, lyric or spin to else-
where—and the last great Violetta
before the piiblif was Lucrezia Ron.
The beauteous Moffo makes a good
try hui at this stage of her career she
NEXT MONTH IN
Harper's
magazine
THE FUTURE, IF ANY,
OF COMEDY
I
The leading humorist of our da
proves — with some reluctance-
that there are still a few things \
to laugh at.
By James Thurh
GALBRAITH IN INDIA
A surprising assessment of oi
I
most literate Ambassador.
By Kusum Na,
11
THE RIDDLE OF
JOHN DOS PASSOS
A study in the changing anaton
of "radicalism."
By Daniel Aart
GUINEAN DIARY
Life in Africa's first Marxi
state.
By W. E. Bulla
AND LATER . . .
'^ Bobby Fischer: Portrait of
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by Ralph Ginzburg; and, "Hou:
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132
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MUSIC IN THE ROUND
has not yet worked her way into the
role. Intelligent as her approach is,
it is a little too careful, a little too
overworked, a little too calculated.
Nor is it technically all that it might
be, and in the first act her Sempre
libera is, to put it mildly, shrill.
Tucker is a fine, experienced tenori
who is beginning to bellow. He isf
not as refined a singer as he used to
be. Merrill, as always, is sonorous
and produces tones of vocal velvet.
Those who are interested in a stereo
version of Traviata can find better
ones than this new Victor— the de los
Angeles-del Monte-Sereni version for
Capitol, say.
From the Auvergne
While on the subject of singing,
here's a disc that might be passec
over in the current rush. It is de
voted to Canteloube's Songs of the
Auvergne, and the soprano is Ne-
tania Davrath, singing with an or-
chestra conducted by Pierre de la
Roche (Vanguard 9085, mono; 2090,
stereo). Record collectors became
familiar with this music in the 1930s,i
as recorded by the admirable French
soprano, Madeleine Grey. That set
became a collector's item. It was
withdrawn; then, during the early
LP era, briefly reissued by Columbia.
Now it is unavailable again. The
new Davrath disc, which includes
some material not present in the
Grey recording, fills the gap.
Joseph Canteloube (1879-1957) was
an industrious composer and a re-
searcher into French folk song. He
lives chiefly through these remark-
able arrangements of songs from the
Auvergne. He had good material
with which to work; and a song like
Bailero is as beautiful as anything in
the entire vocal literature. Cante-
loube handled the music with ex-
quisite taste and tact, and his
sophisticated orchestrations are a
model of their kind. Davrath sings
the music in the original dialect. She
is an Israeli singer with a clear,
somewhat hard, voice, and her ap-
proach is altogether different from
that of the more volatile, sophisti-
cated Grey. Davrath is much more
in the folk-song style, as opposed to
the art-song style of Grey. But Dav-
rath is a fine artist, and she handles
the music enchantingly. This is one
of the loveliest vocal discs of the
year. Try not to miss it.
JAZZ
Eric Larrabee
notes
TESTAMENT
One year before Big Bill Broonzy
died (in 1958) he sat in a Chicago
recording studio singing, guitar-playing,
and talking for ten hours of tape. Bill
Randle, the scholarly disc jockey from
Cleveland who arranged the session, has
now edited it into an album of five LPs,
an extraordinarily rich and relaxed
documentation of Big Bill's artistic
range and experience— songs, memories,
names, anecdotes from across the whole
history and repertoire of country blues.
That was the day of one of the worst
storms Chicago has had. "Man, this is a
helluva night," said Big Bill. "Is there
gonna lie any whiskey?" The voice in-
terweaves with runs and licks on the
guitar. "The feelin' of a man, that's
^vhat he sings from . . ." Then: "I re-
member once, we was ail on the rail-
road . . ." and there will come a story of
I.eadbelly, or Big Maceo, Tampa Red,
speaking of them as friends wiio Iiave
gone but whose songs will live.
In him the tradition found full and
fortunate expre.ssion. There is nothing
of tlie childi.sh ego and malice that mar
the Jelly Roll Morton sessions for the
Lii)rary of Congress. Broon/y is secure
enough to claim kinship with the great
blues originators and sing in their stead.
He is without affectation about his art—
clearly, it beat working on the railroad
—and relatively without envy of the
whites who have since exploited it
(about Elvis Presley: "Fle's singing the
same thing I'm singing now, and he
knows it"). He speaks of the crying of a
whole people in which the blues began
not so much from his own knowledge as
from profound deference. "Now they
talks and gets lawyers and things. . . ."
Big Bill is not the first to speak of the
blues' indebtedness to church music
("every lilues singer I know sung spirit-
uals before he sung the blues") but he
gives it his own flavor. He treats religion
as something he has been too alive and
sinful to share, but not therefore to be
slighted ("I never would set down in
front of Mahalia Jackson and sing the
blues ... I got that much respect"). He
seems to look upon it somewhat as he
regards Leadbelly's monumental aver-
sion to work, as simply another mani-
festation of the inexhaustible variety of
human character. It is the authentic
accent of a large-scale man.
The Bill Broonzy Story. Verve MGV
300O5.
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S705. LOLLIPOPS- Stf Thomas
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ful musical sweet meats'"
by Berl*07. Debussy Mozart
others $4.98. Stereo $5.98.
757. GERMAN BEER-DRINK
ING MUSIC. A Zither, vocal
ists jntl a brjss band bnng
you (rothy enterla
from MuriKh $3.98
ent
S762 RUSSKAYA! Hollywood
Bowl Symphony Carmen
Dragon conducting Russian
music by Rimsky-Korsahou,
others $4,98; Stereo $5.98.
S741 Prokofiev. CINOEK-
£LLft. The balk-Is enchant-
ing muS'C Robert Irving
conducts the Royal Philhdf-
monic $4 98; Stereo $5 98.
S731 Stbelius: SYMPHONY
NO 2. Powerfully played by
the Pridharmonia Orchestra.
Paul Kletzki conducting
$4.98; Stereo $5.98.
728 WAGNER OPERA SELEC-
TIONS The Berlin Philhar-
monn pidv- Tannhauser, Ttie
Flying Dutchman, Gotterdam-
merung $4.98.
74B. SCHUBERT SONGS. Die- J
Inch Fischer-Oieskau s^ngsj
8 charming Schubert songs,
from the gay and buoyant to ]
the deeply tragic. $4.98.
"Extremely high standard ... colorful in sound, the surf aces perfect." — ISlEW YORK TIMES
USE THIS COUPON TO ORDER YOUR 4 ALBUMS!
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riala Atm.l l<rcorcJ Clubol rjanada
JO n tlirouKh »n AHOEL rtECOIllJ
lil« r.umo and uddrcis In marKln. u/^ 1 1
""•T'WS^
S754 THREE RHAPSODIES. S734. TchaiKovsky; SYM.
The Vienna Philhar-nonir un- PHONY NO. 4. A superb per-
def Silveslri plays rfiapso- formance by Conslantm Sil-
dies ty Liszt. Ravel. Enesco vestn and the Philhatmonia
S4. 98: Stereo $5.98. Orch $4.98: Stereo S5. 98.
\i \i mo
739 Crieg PIANO CON-
CERTO. Schumann PIANO
CONCERTO emiidnlly played
r
I
n
t
I
S733 Prokofiev: SYMPHONY
NO. 5. A stunning rendition
of a heroic work by Thomas
Schippers with Philharmonic
Orch $4.98; Stereo $5.9«.
tf
Faultless sound" — High FIDELITY
i
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756. MUSrC ON THE DESERT
ROAD. The hajnting sounds
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pieces recorded on a journey
from Turkey to India. $4.98.
759. PIAF. 12 ballads in the
poignant style of France's
greatest torch singer, with
Robert Chaui/ignys orches-
tra $3.98.
730. BHftHMS: SYMPHONY
NO- 4. His fm^l symphony.
played by the Philharmonia
Orchestra, conducted by
Herbert Von Kdrajan $4.98.
TWO
Dtno Oln
Venetian m
"As smooth as silk" — THE NEW YORKER
743 Stravinsky: PETROUCH
KA. Thf complete v ore ol
the famous ballot Elrorr
Kurt; condurls the Philhar
monia Orchcilrj. $4.«t.
yji SORCERER S APPREN
IICE; lA VAISI . Suite Irom
IM( IMRtt CORNERED HAT:
■ (lASSICAt ' SYMPHONY 4
cxcitinij great works. $4.96.
(HNSl'MS
fimh
■.II M>l iN^/illS
S740 Tchaikovsky: VIOtIN
CONCERIO Mendelssohn:
VIOLIN CONCERTO. Chrisli.in
ferr.is /iilh ihe Chilh.irmuma
Orch $4.98. stereo $S.9B.
S7S3. VIENNESE DANCES Z2.
Vienna. born Henry Kripj
plays 6 scintillalinj; walt/es.
$4.91: Stereo $S.9>.
DON
• VANCOUVER
MARSEILLES
• ._ NAP
IklBRALTAR
Inary islands
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■ •• I around the world
AUCKLAND
ELBOURNE
How to plan your own trip around the world
on P&O-Orient Lines for $17 a day
bday you can sail to the last unspoiled lands of the world on a
eat ocean liner. You'll be pampered with superb British service.
nd you'll pay less per day than at a resort hotel. Read the amazing
icts below. Then mail coupon for your World Travel Planner.
lONsiDKK w hat \(ni spend on n holi-
■ d;u- here at home. Wmv room costs
tom $i: to $25 a da\- pl/is meals, entcr-
linment, ti[)s and travel. Total? I'roni
30 a da\' up just to .n7jv iit home.
\ \our fare to the Orient. South Paci-
!c, L'Airopc and around the world starts
It just $17 a da\- on P&O-Orient Lines—
omplete ivith i/icnls and enn-rtahniient.
Pick your course
irst, look at the map above and dc-
ide w here you \\ ant to go.
You can take a South Pacific holiday
o Hawaii, Fiji, New Zealand, Australia
nd back — a lovely way to escape
vinter up here — for anywhere from
740 to $2548.
If you w ant to explore Japan, Hong
Cong and Manila, the round trip runs
rom just $824 to $2520.
Like a trip to Europe by w ay of the
jouth Pacific or Orient and then on
iround the world? Your fare, including
transportation from England to the
Ast Coast on any other steamship line,
starts at just $1233! (You can also go
the other way round.)
Pick your .ship
The next thing to do is decide which
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P&O-Orient's two new superliners
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w ith a crew of 600 British seamen !
Should you go tourist
or first class?
P&O-Orient offers fares to meet almost
every budget.
Whether you go tourist or first class,
you'll have a comfortable air-condi-
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and sw imming. The main difference, if
you go tourist, is that cabins are a w ee
bit smaller, the life slighth' more in-
formal, and the crow d is younger.
^Vhen to go
You can sail to an\' season you like on
P&O-Orient or follow \our favorite
weather around the world. l"or example:
South Pacific: November through April
is sininncr in Australia and New Zea-
land. Spring starts in September. Can-
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ruary, Oriana in March.
The Orient: .Autumn, early spring and
summer are the best times for temple
gazing and shopping. Iberia sails in
March, Chjisav in May, Oronsay in
June, Arcadia in x\ugust.
What to pack
A delightful part of travelling on
P&O-Orient is the lack of w orry about
overw eight baggage. Bring your entire
wardrobe if you like. There's no bother
of constant packing and unpacking.
Your ship is your home for the trip.
At sea, a cocktail dress is nice for
parties. Dark suits are fine for men.
Bring lots of sport clothes.
See your travel agent for your ticket
and details on visas, etc. He's a marvel
at getting you organized.
- - MAIL WITH ISi FOR WORLD TRAVEL PLANNER - -,
P&O-Orient Lines. Dept. 14F
155 Post Street, San Francisco 8. Calif.
Sirs: Please send my World Travel I'lan-
ner Kit. Enclosed is 25? to cover han-
dling and mailing.
Name
Street
City
State^
My travel agent is_
P&O-ORIENT LINES
San Francisco • los Angeles • Seattle
Vancouver • Honolulu • Mexico C"il\.
Elsewhere in U.S. and Canada: Cunard
1 ine, General Passenger Agents.
kk
White Label
DEWAR'S
SCOTCH WHISKY
Famed are the clans of Scotland
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Famous, too, is Dewar's White
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irfk vuifjaztiie
HE FUTURE OF COMEDY
HE STRAIMGE ROMANCE
ET\A/EEI\I JOHIM L. LE\A/IS
JMP CVRUS EATOIM
LaHAT CHICAGO COULD
:1E PROUD OF
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HE CULT OF PERSOIMALITY
OMES TO THE AA/HITE HOUSE
\
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At Bell Telephone Laboratories, mathematician Sidney Darlington
has contributed notably in developing the art of circuit analysis.
IT HAPPENS IN THE MIND
■^'
. . .It is essentially a thing of the mind for it works through concepts, symbols and
relationships . . .it helps man to analyze and synthesize the complex phenomena of the
universe and himself . . . it luorks m many ivays to advance electrical communications :
IT IS CALLED MATHEMATICS
At Bell Telephone Laboratories, mathematics
works powerfully to solve problems involving com-
plex data. Intriguingly, too, the mathematical ap-
proach: led to the invention of the electric wave
filter . . . disclosed a kind of wave transmission
which may some day carry huge amounts of infor-
mation in waveguide systems . . . foretold the feasi-
bility of modern quality control . . . led to a scientific
technique for determining how many circuits must
be provided for good service without having costly
equipment lie idle.
For each creative task. Bell Laboratories utilizes
whatever serves best— mathematical analysis, labora-
tory experimentation, simulation with electronic com-
puters. Together they assure the economical advance-
ment of all Bell System communications services.
As BELL TELEPHONE SYSTEM
H A K !• F. R A Fl i! O 1 1 1 K R S
Chairman of the Executive
Committee: CASS canfield
Chairman of the Board:
FRANK S. MACGREGOR
President:
RAYMOND C. HARWOOD
Executive Vice President:
EVAN W. THOMAS
Vice Presidents:
EUGENE EXMAN, ORDWAY TEAD,
DANIEL F. BRADLEY. JOHN FISCHER,
URSULA NORDSTROM
Treasurer: LOUls f. haynie
M A (; A Z I N K S T \ F K
Editor in Chief: JO;,.\ fischer
Managing Editor: russell lynes
Publisher: JOHN jay hughes
Editors:
KATHERINE gauss JACKSON
CATHARINE MEYER
ROBERT B. SILVERS
LUCY DONALDSON
MARION K. SANDERS
JOYCE BERMEL
Contributing Editor:
WILLIAM S. WHITE
Editorial Secretary: rose daly
Editorial A ssistant:
VIRGINIA HUGHES
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HariDef
MAGA
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PUBl.ISHl I) m
HARPER & 15ROTHKRS
tip
VOL. 'ITS. NO. 1339
DECEMBER l'J61
ARTICLES
25 The Strange Romance Between John L. Lewis and
Cyrus Eaton, Nat Caldwell and Gene S. Graham
34 What Chicago Could Be Proud Of, Elinor Richey
40 The Future, If Any, of Comedy, Ja)nrs Tlnirber
46 Galbraith in India, Kusum Nair
56 The U.ses of the Moon, Arthur C. Clarke
63 The Cult of Personality Comes to the White House,
William G. Carlcton
69 Guinean Diary, W . E. Bullard
FICTION
79 A Blocked Feed, Nigel Dennis
VERSE
28 Her Husband, Ted Hughes
.^)3 Pavane for a Dead Doll, Ogden Nash
49 Burn It! Robert Graves
DEPARTMENTS
4 Letters
15 The Editor's Easy Chair— Christmas list,
John Fischer
20 After Hours, Noel Pcrriv and Anonytnous
84 Public & Personal— HOW to pi t kennedy back in the
SENATE, William S. White
87 The New Books, Leo Steinberg
102 Books in Brief, h'alherine Gauss Jackson
109 Music in the Round, Discus
1 12 Jazz Notes, Erie Larrabee
AKTisrs: CiovtT, lUiri G()l(ll)l;itt: 20. N. M. Bodcckcr; 33, Richard
Roscnblum; 36, 38, 39, Phoioj^raplis by Richard Nickel; 41, 42,
-13, 'ih, James lliiirljcr; 'Ki, Noi iiKvJcaii Koplin; 73, 74, 79, 82,
Leo Sunimcrs.
OUTSTANDING BOOKS
recommended by the BOGK-QF-THE-MGNTH CLUB
CURRENT BOOKS YOU HAVE BEEN ANXIOUS NOT TO MISS . . . OTHER GOOD BOOKS YOU HAVE
^^^^M LONG PROMISED YOURSELF TO READ . . . AND PRACTICAL BOOKS FOR YOUR HOME OR OFFICE
^ou may choose Any Three for ^1 each...
IN A SHORT TRIAL MEMBERSHIP. ..IF YOU AGREE TO BUY THREE ADDITIONAL CLUB CHOKES-AT THE MEMBERS' PRICES-WITHIN A YEAR
467. THE MAK-
ING OF THE PRES-
IDENT—1960 by
THEODORE H.
WHITE. (Retail
price $6.95)
ISVfill
466. RUSSIA AND
THE WEST UN-
DER LENIN AND
STALIN hy george
F. KONNAN. (Re-
tail price $5.75)
465. PROFILES IN
COURAGE by
JOHN F. KEN-
NEDY. (Retail
price $3.95)
I AND rat;
:ecstasj
#■; ■ S.
' STONE ^.
455. THE AGONY
AND THE EC-
STASY by IRVING
STONE. (Retail
price $5.95)
431. THE RISE AND
FALL OF THE THIRD
REICH hy WILLIAM
L. SHIRER. (Retail
price $10)
454. THE LAST
OF THE JUST by
ANDRE SCHWARZ-
BART. (Retail
price $4.95)
487. THE SHORT
STORIES OF ER-
NEST HEMINGWAY
(Retail price $6)
458. JAPANESE
\tiU by OLIVER
STATLER. Illus-
trated. (Retail
price $6.50)
436. DECISION
AT DELPHI by
HELEN MAC INNES
(Retail price
$4.95)
498. LIVING FREE
iWOYADAMSON. Il-
lustrated. (Retail
price $5.95)
33L.
480. THE WAR
CALLED PEACE by
HARRY a>lJ BONARO
OVERSTREET. (Re-
tail price $4.50)
[OM-SANDSUftG
ABRAHAM
[LINCOLN
448. ABRAHAM
LINCOLN: The
Prairie Yeors AND
The War Years
by CARL SANDBURG
1 -vol. edition
(Retail price $7.50)
435. TO KILL A
MOCKINGBIRD
by HARPER LEE
(Retail price
$3.95)
484. TWELVE
SHORT NOVELS
Selected and edited hy
THOMAS B, COSTAIN
(Retail price $7.50)
uox
^253212
161 . THE JOY
OF COOKING by
IRMA S. ROMBAUER
and MARION R.
BECKER. Illustrated
(Retail price $4.95)
A TRIAL MEMBERSHIP THAT MAKES GOOD SENSE
•T^HE PURPOSE of this Suggested trial
■"■ membership is to demonstrate two
things hy your own experience-, first, that
you can really keep yourself from missing,
through oversight or overbusyness, books
you fully intend to read; second, the ad-
vantages of the Club's unique Book-Divi-
dend system, through which members reg-
ularly receive valuable library volumes—
either without charge or at a small frac-
tion of their price — simply by buying
books they would buy anyway. The offer
described here really represents "advance"
Book-Dividends earned by the purchase of
the three books you engage to buy later.
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pictured on this page will be sent to you
immediately, and you will be billed one
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5|c If you continue after buying the three
books called for in this trial membership,
with every second Club choice you buy
you will receive, without charge, a valu-
able Book-Dividend averaging more than
$7 in retail value. Since the inauguration
of this profit-sharing plan, $270,000,000
worth of books (retail value) has- been
received by members as Book-Dividends.
tiwncunn»i|
mmn\
hmwf
485. INSIDE EU-
ROPE TODAY by
JOHN GUNTHER
(Retail price $4.95)
463. THE EDGE
OF SADNESS hy
EDWIN O'CONNOR
(Retail price $5)
Hami
457. RING OF
BRIGHT WATER
by GAVIN MAX-
WELL. Illustrated
(Retail price $5)
483. PETER FREU-
CHEN'S BOOK OF
THE ESKIMOS. Il-
lustrated. (Retail
price $7.50)
ioi;ai. \
MARRIA<iKS
186. HAWAII by
JAMES A. MICH-
ENER. (Retail
price $6.95)
479. LILITH by
J. R. SALAMANCA
(Retail price
$5.50)
151. IDEAL MAR-
RIAGE: Its Physi-
ology and Tech-
nique ^>TH. H. VAN
DE VELDE, M.D.
Illustrated. (Retail
price $7.50)
157. THE POPU-
LAR MEDICAL
ENCYCLOPEDIA by
MORRIS FISHBEIN,
M.D. Illustrated
(Retail price $4.95)
152. BARTLETT'S
FAMILIAR QUO-
TATIONS. 13th edi-
tion. (Retail price
$10)
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LETTERS
Campus Conflicts
To THE Editors:
The picture of Harvard College pre-
sented by Christopher Jencks in "The
Next Thirty Years in the Colleges"
["The College Scene" Supplement, Octo-
ber] seems to me so one-sided as to be
virtually false. I write thus plainly after
twenty-five years of teaching at Harvard
and twenty years of teaching at various
state universities.
Mr. Jencks's picture is that of a faculty
of specialists so concerned about their
specialty as to be indifferent to under-
graduate education. . . . The notion
... is false. I know no college that is
more consistently and conscientiously
concerned for undergraduate education.
This is the purpose of the tutorial sys-
tem, of the so-called "house system," of
general education. . . .
Mr. Jencks's article . . . omitted to
point out that Harvard is one of the few
universities of the country to have a
full-fledged faculty committee on teach-
ing as a career (with a budget of its
own) and that this committee recently
published a full-length studv of the ways
by which the various departments go
about training graduate students for a
teaching career— and the term "teaching
career" refers to undergraduate educa-
tion. . . .
This year, as in previous years, a scries
of lectures and conferences on college
teachers and college teaching is given
for the benefit of graduate students,
all of whom Mr. Jencks apparently
consigns to a mere "methodological"
life. Mr. Jencks writes that "no grad-
uate school in the country treats this
classroom apprenticeship half so seri-
ously as the apprenticeship in library
or laboratory." .\Ir. Jencks cannot have
the best of both worlds, even if his state-
ment be true: he cannot have highly
trained experts necessary to our culture
and also teachers skilled to shape "an
ignorant adolescent audience." His an-
tinomy is, however, false; and I find
graduate students quite as eager to learn
how to perform in the classroom as they
are to perform in laboratory or library.
Howard Mumford Jones
Professor of English
Harvard University
Cambriflue M.iss.
CJhrislopher Jencks, ahhcHi-n kiim lo
the University of California, gives a dis-
torted picture of higher education in
this state, and does a disservice to higher
education generally.
The Master Plan for Higher Educa-
tion in California provides a basis for co-
operation to achieve excellence among
the four segments— J imior Colleges,
State Colleges, University of California,
and private institutions. Each has its
distinctive task, yet each also has a part
in educating the academically talented,
in whom Mr. Jencks seems exclusively
interested. Undergraduate admission
under the Master Plan to freshman
status in the University of California is
limited to the top 12V2 per cent of high-
school graduates; the State Colleges will
admit from the top SSVs per cent.
Both segments now rec|uire standard
aptitude tests. Few institutions across the
country are more selective. Many able
students choose to attend Junior Col-
leges for two years; when they transfer
to senior institutions they make remark-
al)ly good records.
Nor can we afford to neglect the post-
secondary fate of those whose academic
talents are not readily apparent. Cir-
cumstances . . . may prevent a vouth
from doing his best in high school, or
may necessitate remaining at home. So-
ciety also needs well-trained technicians
and farmers, alert citi/ens and com-
nuniity leaders. The Junior Colleges of
California provide opportiuiities for
both academic transfer and vocational
terminal work, and they do a remark-
able job of counseling to help students
adjust their levels of expectation to their
al)ilities. . . . We think the California
Plan is well-conceived to cultivate tiie
broad spectrum of abilities required by
our society, and it is being done at a
cost that the people can afford to pay.
Ci ARK Kerr
President of the University
University of California
Congratulations to Milton Levine,
M.D., and Maya Pines for their prac-
tical, frank article on "Sex: The Prob-
lem Colleges Evade." As a graduate of
an Eastern women's college who gave
birth to a boy five months after marriage
in my senior year, I can assure the
authors that their statement that col-
leges "cannot escape responsibiliiv for
the emoticmal and physical life of young
people on their campuses" expresses a
real and urgent truth. The evasion of
the issue by teachers, deans, and even
house mothers prohibits young women
Irom lurning to them for advice, leaving
only the overworked infirm:iry staff ancl
llie college psychiatrist— bcnli unleasible
because they keep written records of all
interviews and the student's fear of re- i
percussions is too great.
This problem is but one facet of the |
larger problem— seen- clearly by Michael
Novak in "God in the Colleges." He
points out the resistance met by the stu-
dent who is trying to work out his own
important personal problems in the
light of the new concepts he is learning.
This false and harmfid separation of the
intellect and the personality, the aca-
demic life and the physical, must be
resolved if today's colleges are going to
produce human beings who rememljcr
what they learned because it shaped
their lives in ways other than earning a
higher salary. ...
Name Withheld
In "God in the Colleges," Michael
Novak writes: "Professor Raphael
Demos was once quoted as saying, with
perhaps his touch of irony, 'Veritas
means we are committed to nothing.' "
Mr. Novak does not say who quoted me,
and I do not remember that I ever said
anything like that. What I do believe is
this*: that at Harvard we are committed
to nothing but Veritas . . . but as any
good teacher knows, truth is a subtle
matter and no one can claim with assur-
ance that he has obtained it. Therefore,
while we try to instill a respect for truth
in our students, we do not venture to
tell them what truth is. We have too
much respect for them as autonomous
human i)eings.
I am astonished at the extent of the
knowledge about Harvard which Mr.
Novak seems to have acquired after a
stay here of only one year. .Although I
have been over forty years at Harvard,
I am not as sure about fln)'thing as Mr.
Novak is about cf^rything that he Avrites
concerning Harvard. Some Socratic
awareness of one's own ignorance would
have been in point here.
My reference to Socrates is deliberate.
He is the greatest teacher that ever lived
and the teacher of all teachers. As a
teacher, Socrates had no message to im-
part; he described himself as a midwife
to his pupils' ideas and opinions. I be-
lieve that Socrates in his life and work
expresses the ideal of a liberal education
for all time— an ideal which Mr. Novak
has misinterpreted in two ways at least.
First, he assumes that because the
teacher does not indoctrinate the stu-
dent, he has no commitments of his own.
This is false. Surely the teacher has his
own convictions; he does not, however,
try to impose them upon his stu-
dents. . . .
Second, Mr. Novak assumes that be-
cause the teacher does not indoctrinate
the student, the teacher does not value
(onviction in the student. Iliis too is
false. What the teacher abhors is con-
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LETTERS
victions arrived at the easy and the
superficial way. What the teacher honors
and aims at is convictions based on
adequate information and reflection.
Socrates strongly believed that right
living was of greater value than mere
living, mere survival; what is more, he
Ijclieved this with passion. Nevertheless,
he did not force this conviction upon liis
pupils; especially did he avoid "passion-
ate" appeals. Because a man holds a
conviction with passion, it docs not fol-
low that he must proclaim it with pas-
sion. Socrates wanted his pupils to arrive
at their beliefs by the use of reason and
to find out for themselves. This I believe
to be the aim of Harvard and of all
good colleges.
Raphael Demos
Professor of Philosophy
Harvard Universitv
Cambridge, Mass.
Mr. Novak Comments:
Few are the professors of my acquaint-
ance, at Harvard or elsewhere, in whom
I have more admired the qualities I
l)raised in my article than Professor
Demos. It is perhaps the whimsical hu-
mor of fate— or Providence— that brings
one the sorrow of being misinterpreted
where one had hoped for spontaneous
agreement.
Professor Demos was quoted, exact Iv
as stated, in the Harvard Crimson Snji-
plement of June 11, 1959, on page S-5.
in the middle of the second column.
The article was entitled "Faculty Fs-
chews Pedagogical Proselytizing"— an ar-
ticle which quite clearly presents the
position which Professor Demos iterates
in his letter, and with which my article
implicitly agreed.
I have made neither of the assump-
tions Professor Demos attributes to me;
1 abhor them. Neither did I ask that
students be made to suffer from "pas-
sionate" appeals; no model could better
express the inner passion and the outer
ever-further questioning— concerning the
great human questions— which 1 was
urging than Socrates. Again, my article
was jrom, but not about, Harvard.
As for my youth, the Harper's Sup-
plement apparently wanted the views
of young people upon "The College
Scene," with whatever risks that entails.
As for my humility, I am sorry it has
been found wanting in the eyes of a
man I deeply admire, and would
emulate.
Michael Novak
Cambridge, Mass.
I wondered why the word Bible did
not appear in the text of Michael
Novak's "God in the Colleges," since it
is the source of spiritual truth for our
citizenry of all strata. If its wisdom is
too shallow or elusive lor the nuulcrn
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LETTERS
campus, we sure waste a lot of man-
hours on Sunday morning in this
country . . .
Herbert L. Hathaway
Telford. Pa.
I wish Charlotte Devree [in "The
Young Negro Rel^els"] had spent more
time on the Negro colleges, so she could
have discovered that rebellion is not the
ethos of the Negro college student any
more sf) than of any other college stu-
dent. Unrest, yes; indecision, yes; Inu
this is the character of youth all over the
world today. . . .
Careful reading of the Virginia Union
catalogue will reveal that it is not a
group of Baptist colleges on a single
campus, but a University composed of a
liberal-arts undergrad school and a grad-
uate theological seminary. . . .
The symptoms of poverty mentioned
are real, bin to make this indicative of
listless education is a fallacy. The lack
of response Mrs. Devree noted is easily
understood by anyone who has ever
been a Negro in America. The .\meri-
can Negro has I)ecn taught by our cul-
ture to dislrusi anyone who asks too
many (pieslioiis. One of our great poets
has sought to explain this fad to others
with his poein: "We ^Vear the Mask." A
true picture of Virginia Union and the
other Negro (ollegcs can be assayed only
by living with the students long enougli
to "sit where they sit." . . .
ClIARI.l S f. SaRCW NT. fR.
Va. Union University, Class of '1!)
Minister, Union Hapiist Church
Stamford, Conn.
I was inspired by Charlotte Devrce's
article. Such dedication and courage on
the part of disadvantaged students com-
pels admiration and respect. I am con-
vinced that these young Negro and
white students, committed to the non-
violent philosophy and technique of
Martin f.uthcr King, are going to win
their struggle. . . .
Palmer Van Gund^
Glendale, Calif.
In "The New Campus Magazines," a
few Ijrief references to Analysis and a
short quote from me led Richard CJhase
to conclude that "conservative siudeius
and their teachers have a long way to go
before they can match the literacy, learn-
ing, and essential seriousne.ss of their
left antagonists." Analysis was edited
and pul)lished by two fre.shmen at the
I'niversiiy of Pennsylvania. Perhaps Pro-
fessor Chase ^vill be good enough to
specify which liberal magazines, simi-
larly edited by college freshmen, so far
exceed it in literacy and Icaniing ;is to
lead to his conclusion.
As for liberal superiority, in "essential
seriousness" there is no doubt, and no
NEXT MONTH IN
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I\ SEARCH OF A CHARACTER
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stay at a leper colony — ^in which
a distinguished writer shows how
raw experience is converted into a
best-selling novel.
B\ Graham Greene
THE NEW GAMBLING KING
and the Social Scientists
How motivation research has
been used to make slot machines
and roidette not only profitable
but respectable.
By Keith Monroe
OTTO PASSMAN:
lli<> Scourge of Foreign Aid
Profile of the Louisiana Con-
gressman who has become the most
ruthless hatchet man on Capitol
Hill.
By Rowland Evans, Jr.
HEARST'S
CRUMBLING EMPIRE
Why once-flourishing newspapers
and magazines languish and die . . .
while a "business team" tends the
balance sheet.
By Albert Bermel
REPORT FROM
A PEEVISH PATHOLOGIST
Some rude questions are asked
about the gallons of patients' blood
(and the thousands of dollars) ex-
pen<led on tests which may or may
not be necessary.
By S. L. Wilens, M.D.
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LETTERS
argument. My quoted phrase ("Pie in
the Sky takes a great deal of dough")
was a parody of the many such phrases
which are found in the lexicon of liber-
als. Professor Chase not only took it
seriously, he took it with "essential seri-
ousness" if not grimly.
A. H. HoBBs
Sociology Department
Wharton School
University of Pennsylvania
Philadelphia, P;i.
Prof. Chase Replies:
Doubtless Professor Hobbs is right in
suggesting that I should have stressed
the youthfulness of the editors of Analy-
sis. As for the hilarious utterance, "Pie
in the Sky takes a great deal of dough,"
I do not see how it can possibly be a
parody of anything but itself. Puns in
general? They have the virtues of their
vices, and vice versa. They also have
their place.
Richard Chase
New York, N.Y.
ft
Nathan Glazer [in "The Wasted Class-
room"] omitted the most important line
open between the collegian and his
academic mentor— the direct, noncredit.
extra-classroom meeting of teacher and
student which is possible in even the
largest university. As a former student
at Smith and as a summer-session stu-
dent at the University of California at
Berkeley ... I have seen this communi-
cation work and work well. . . . The bet-
ter teachers at Smith and at Berkeley—
and at Georgetown, where I am now do-
ing graduate work— always had lines
outside their doors after classes. In most
cases, one conference served to spark
the student's interest, to instill in him
or her a sense of intellectual worth. . . .
Jane E. Lubchansky
Washington, D. C.
A Cultural Debt?
To the Editors:
Herbert Kupferberg, in "The Culture
Monopoly at Lincoln Center" [October],
skirted an important question. Lincoln
Center will be the beneficiary of $30
million of taxpayers' money. . . . Should
not then the Center be responsive to the
the public interest and does not that in-
terest dictate saving the present Opera
House? The Metropolitan Opera Asso-
ciation gained a substantial income
when it leased the land luider the
House, yet the public is asked to con-
tril)ute as individuals and as taxpayers
to the new opera house. A public de-
cision is [in order] to determine if the
need lor additional concert halls would
he helped l)y saving and reconditioning
the Mel. . . .
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<:r
^he time for High Tea in India is
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medieval terraces of palace gardens; it
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a houseboat, on a Kashmir lake miles
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After a ten>nis final it comes, or a polo
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it is a soiree of dance-drama. The mood
comes upon you languidly when the
shadows are long and the evening breeze
carries the perfume of jasmine and
queen-of-the-night. The time for High
Tea in India is a time to meet, to sit and
talk, to admire.
This year, seek the mood that is India.
For further information,
see your tr&vel agent, or write dept. H
LETTERS
Xh
GOVERNMENT TOURIST OFFICE
Nfew York; 19 E. 49th St.
San Fr;mcisco: 685 Market St.
Toronto. 177 Kiny St. W
Lincoln Center is more than splendid
buildings. . . . The Center means the
public is being given a voice in hitherto
private cultural institutions, whether
each of the parties wants it or not, with
grave responsibilities for each.
Jerome Zukosky
New York, N.Y.
Texans on the Right
To THE Editors:
I wonder how many readers of your
articles on "What They'll Die for in
Houston" [Marjorie K. McCorquodale.
"The College Scene," October] and
"Houston's Superpatriots" [Willie Mor-
ris, October] shared my thought: that
while an average student at the Univer-
sity of Houston may doubt that any-
thing is worth dying for, a typical Hous-
ton superpatriot . . . knows his country
is worth dying for. While I would pre-
fer the cocktail-party society of the stu-
dent, I would much rather share a front-
line foxhole with the liircher.
R. E. L. Masters
Springdale, .Ark.
... I wish that Willie Morris had
taken his finger out of the superpatriot's
eye just long enough to explain to all
of us that he, along with many others,
prefers neither the far Right nor the far
Left. His article does nothing to pro-
mote understanding or national pur-
pose. He has succeeded ... in smearing
the word patriot, but what substitute for
the conception would he suggest?
Dorothy K. Waterous
Saint Paul, Minn.
As a Texan and a product of the
Houston independent school system, I
applaud to the very echo Mr. Morris'
article on the appalling situation in
Houston. The real problem is the ob-
vious lack of organization among the
liberals. They once laughed; now they
are cringing in fear of the new god of
the [fanatics], the tape-recorders. . . .
PvT. D. L. Dannenbaum
Ft. Leonard Wood, Mo.
Improving Welfare
To the Editors:
Edgar May's article, "A Way Out of
the Welfare Mess" [October], has put a
firm finger on the major flaw in public
welfare programs today— overworked,
undcrtrained, and often underpaici so-
cial workers. . . . Until the public is
Housed to the economy— not only in
dollars but in lives— of increasing the
iiaining and skills ol pui)lic welfare
\\orkers, the waste will either go on or
ni.iiiy needy people will be denied both
sustenance and a way out of the
troubles. Norman V. Lourie, Pre
National Assoc, of Social Workei
New York, N.1
I have read with interest and approve
Edgar May's article. He is exactly rigl
when he says "Mayors and legislatoi
clamoring . . . for urban renewal mu
turn also to human renewal." ObviousI
the basic need is for government. fe(
era], state, and local, to invest heavil
right now, in providing a sufficient sta
to accomplish this job of human r
newal. Somehow the urgency of makin
this long overdue investment in prope
administration must be impressed upo
the governors of our states and on ou
state legislators. These are the peopl
who hold the key.
Raymond M. Hilliard, Dii
Cook County Dept. of Public Aii
Chicago, II.
The process of instituting reforms cai
only be accomplished by the polic)
makers. . . . However, when faced wit!
a mother and children demandin
money, the administration is backed int(
a corner, the only exit being an emei
gency cash grant. All thoughts of train
ing and rehabilitation for this mothe
can wait for the tomorrow that wil
never come. The amount of publi
monies spent on welfare recipients i
staggering; all of the funds are spent oi
food, clothing, and the other necessitie:
There is no money left for training anc
rehabilitation. The welfare center ii
which I am employed gives an averag
ol $18,000 monthly in emergency assist
ance alone. . . . Multiply this figure b
the number of months in a year and tha
sum by the seventeen welfare centers ii
New York City and you can readily sei
that the cost to the taxpayers is com
pletely out of proportion to the amoun
of help that it actually gives. . . .
Bernard Kat.
Social Investigate
N. Y. City Dept. of Welfare
Bronx, N. Y
We are confused about the intro
ductory phrase "pious sentimentality o
social workers." We are unable to fim
anything in the article indicating tha
Mr. May interpreted the attitude ol hi
co-workers in this way. . . .
Gladys C. Hali
Nat. Assoc, of Social ^Vorker:
Colorado Springs, Colo
Mrs. Hale's point is well taken. Wi
regret any offense inadvertently given Ic
professional sensibilities.— The Editors
. . . We are failing woefully in oui
efforts to provide the welfare service
J O f fl G f She lives in a nation of joiners, but the "club" she belongs to is not the
usual kind. It's a business— set up and run by the consumers themselves. She's part
owner of this new supermarket in Maryland suburbia. She has a voice in its manage-
ment. . . and enjoys yearly savings on her grocery bill. You'll find "joiners" like her all
over America. They're all members of co-operatives. They may be apartment dwellers
in the Bronx who are their own landlords ... or farmers in Oregon who own their own
electric company. One thing these 13,000,000 men and women share— a desire to
have more control over their economic lives. They're good Americans all... paying
their way, but paying less because they've learned to work together eo-operatively.
P.S. Thirty-five years ago nationwide itselj was founded by mem-
bers of co-ops. That's why we salute the co-operative way with
particular interest. If you'd like to learn more about our unique
organization, send for our free booklet, "What We're Up To."
Write NATIONWIDE, Dept. J, 246 No. High St., Columbus 16, Ohio.
Nationwide Mutual Ins. Co./ Nationwide Life Ins. Co. / Nationwide Mutual Fire Ins. Co. /home office: Columbus 16, 0.
vnxuke^ iwKJUt nx)wJLaiU d/u/riRA
sc
\
U IVl^ "
.pu>frL 2me/do cRjIcO'
Our great reserves of fine, light, dry
Puerto Rican rums-plus the craftsmanship
that comes from generations of fine rum
mal<ing-give Merito unmatched delicacy and
deliciousness. This holiday, serve Merito
and, quite simply, you'll be serving the best.
iA/m imm mcuk imM (lAciouA mik
IVIERITO RUM
Eggnog
You can now buy excellent eggnog mixes.
Simply add 8 02. of Merito Rum to each
quart of mix.
Hot Rum Toddy
Dissolve 1 tsp. sugar in 1 oz. hot water
in mug or glass. Add V/z oz. Merito Rum,
clove-studded lemon slice. Fill with 4 oz.
boiling water, add cinnamon stick.
Hot Buttered Rum
Place 2 oz. Merito Rum, 1 tsp. sugar,
1 stick cinnamon, pinch of nutmeg, in
preheated mug or old-fashioned glass.
Fill with boiling water. Drop in generous
pat of butter. Carefully float a tablespoon
of flaming rum on top.
%^i
w
'«
KAllOtlAl DIS1ILlf.RS PRODUCTS CO.. N.Y. • 80 PROOF.
LETTERS
with the most basic of tools. Recent
Congressional action rejected funds
from the appropriation bill for the De-
partment of I^ealth, Education, and
Welfare that would have provided for
the training of public welfare personnel.
If we are to develop the "experimental
units" which Mr. May discusses, train-
ing funds of this kind are of the utmost
importance. . . .
Sherman Merle
Asst. Prof., School of Social Work
Boston University
Boston, Mass.
This is an exceedingly interesting and
timely presentation of the range of prob-
lems which confront welfare workers.
Mr. May has done a remarkably dis-
cerning job in pointing out both the
shortcomings and the opportunities in
this field.
LouLA Dunn, Dir.
American Public Welfare Assoc.
Chicago, 111,,
Ivans Belle
\
T
G
mi
fa
Idfi
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mon
ifhei
As
itet
To THE Editors:
Thank you so much for Norman Hal
liday's interesting account ["The Proper
Tool Will Do the Job," October] of the
career and fate of the Mississippi steam-
boat Begonia Belle [which was "sent to
Russia under Lend-Lease . . . and they
refused to give her up"]. It clears upL
finally a curious incident which occurred;
when I was in Russia shortly after the um
late war. ... ' -
It had become an article of faith
that the Soviet Union did not possess,
fleet aircraft carriers. Imagine my aston- P^
ishment, therefore, when in a large
secluded ' cove near Archangel, I ob-
served a carrier of truly remarkable pro-:hl
portions, busily engaged in landing four-
engine bombing planes. More puzzling
still was the name hastily lettered in
Cyrillic characters on her side— 5)'e/o-
russian Belle. But the oddest feature was
that the carrier was propelled by a large
paddle wheel.
I understand now what had hap-
pened. With their curious lack of rever-
ence for cultural treasures other than
their own, the Russians had stripped
Begonia Belle down to the hull and
were craftily preparing to spring her in
a fleet review, to give us an inferiority
complex from which we might never
recover. ...
(The Belle's capacious pilot-house, I
have since ascertained, was removed in j
one piece, and laboriously transported
i)y air and oxtrain to Sverdlovsk, where
it now serves as the central meeting hall ^
of the Young Communist League.)
Ronald S. Bonn
New York, N.Y.
'bt!
'iPfrj
iilio
tkrr
»ni|)
I'lr I
JOHN FISCHER
THE EDITOR'S EASY CHAIR
Christmas List
RATEFUL holiday greetings to a list
ot people and institutions who have done
omcthing special during the past year to add to
ic gaiety and comfort of mankind:
/. To Mrs. Betty Fricdan of Rockland County,
yiexi' York, for xvfiat may be the /lafjplcst idea of
he year in education. She persuaded seventy-five
f the county's best scientists, painters, writers,
ind lawyers to help out in their spare time in the
ocal schools. Some of them give Saturday sem-
nars to especially bright and ambitious students.
V Columbia University scientist takes a car full
f eighth-graders into his laboratory on Saturday
nornings. A famous artist is coaching a talented
ligh-school junior in painting. Still other mem-
)ers of the Resources Pool drop into classrooms
vhenever they are summoned by the teacher, to
ive expert help on subjects ranging from an-
iiopology to poetry.
As a consequence, Rockland County young-
ters are getting, for free, the kind of education
lat no money could buy. .\nd the whole com-
nunity, under the leadership of a PTA com-
nittee, is getting some exhilarating experience in
vorking together to solve its own problems, with-
ut state or federal help. Other towns all over
le country already are asking Rockland resi-
ents for advice in setting up similar plans— and
le New World Foundation got so interested that
t put up Sl.S.OOO to help mesh the scheme into
he public school system.
2. In the field of sports, to imaginative pio-
leers on three continents:
(a) The witch doctors of Southern Rhodesia,
vho are turning a nice shilling by supplying
harms to the local soccer teams. .\ few pence
vill buy magic powder to rub onto a player's
ody. For a slightly higher fee, the doctor will
vhip up arm amulets for the ^\hole squad. .\nd
or ten pounds he will jjioduce the Surefire
xonomy-Size Medicine— a bundle of secret cult-
objects buried at midnight in the playing field,
with incantations, before a championship game.
(Even here, however, American habits are creep-
ing in. When a team drops too many games, its
witch doctor gets fired just as fast as a baseball
manager who finishes eighth.)
(b) The Surrey and Burstow Hunt, which is
trying to introduce fox hunting to the British
masses by selling memberships on the installment
plan. Now any grocery clerk can follow the
hounds, just like Jorrocks, by making a small
down payment and spreading the rest of his dues
—about $112— over a full year. Special rates avail-
able for families and for children under seven-
teen.
(c) The citizens of "W'estport, Connecticut— a
stronghold of Republicanism— who are enjoying
the first socialized country club in America.
\\'hen a privately-owned 191-acre club cainc onto
the market last year, the town bought it for just
imder .'52 million and turned it into a municipal
pleasure ground— complete with clubhouse, golf
course, tennis courts, pool, cabanas, cottages, and
five restaurants. Any Westport family can join
for SIO a year, plus modest fees for golf and
tennis. First Selectman Herbert E. Baldwin, a
brass-bound conservative like every other respect-
able "Westportian, has described this experiment
with creeping socialism as "the most marvelous
thing that ever happened to our town."
3. To Edmund G. Love whose "Subivays Are
for Sleeping" was publislied in Harper's in
March 1956. The story of a down-and-outer who
lived in New York City for three years on prac-
tically no money at all, it later grew into a best-
selling book. Now it is being processed into a
Broadway musical and a film, both financed by
Frank Sinatra with commitments already of
"close to a million dollars." Although innumer-
able Harper's pieces— by authors as diverse as
Kenneth Galbraith, Roald Dahl, and Gypsy Rose
Lee— have developed into books, * plays, TV
* For others, see pp. 106-108.
16
THE EDITOR'S EASY CHAIR
shows, and musicals, Mr. Love's literary invest-
ment appears to be the most lucrative growth
stock to date.
4. To Alfred A. Kyiopf for a unique-and his-
torically immluable— motion picture. When he
was a fledgling publisher, in the early 'twenties,
he usually carried on his travels a 16-mm. Bell &
Howell camera. With it he made informal shots
of his favorite authors-H. L. Mencken enjoying
a party in his shirt sleeves, Thomas Mann at an
Alpine resort, anarchist Emma Goldman aboard
ship on her disillusioning voyage to Russia, Max
Beerbohm in a London street, Willa Gather look-
ing regal, Elinor Wylie looking bewitching,
George Jean Nathan looking like a dissipated
leprechaun, Joseph Hergesheimer, Oswald Speng-
ler, Carl Van Vechten, Walter de la Mare, and
many others trying hard to look like distin-
guished writers.
Thousands of feet of such film, tucked away in
a drawer in the Knopf office, were forgotten for
nearly thirty years. They were discovered a few
months ago when the firm moved into new
quarters. Louis de Rochemont Associates con-
verted the best of the footage— much had deter-
iorated beyond salvage— into a half-hour docu-
mentary, with a sound track narrated by Mr.
Knopf himself. Under the title "A Publislier Is
Known by the Gompany He Keeps," it will be
released next year to schools, colleges, commer-
cial theatres, and anybody else Avho wants an
intimate glimpse into a Golden Age of American
letters.
5. To the police department of Birmingham,
England, which is gingerly preparing to hire
Britain's first Negro constable. Thousands of
Negro policemen have of course been working
for decades in scores of American cities. But to
the British— who always have plenty to say about
race relations in America— this still looks like a
dangerously advanced step. Scotland Yard has
no intention of hiring Negro police for London,
in spite of its rapidly rising colored population,
on the grounds that they "would not be willingly
accepted by the public."
6. To the restaurant keepers along U.S. 40 in
Maryland, the main route between Washington
andNeiu York, for an inspiring demonstration of
patrioti.sm. Using exactly the same argument as
Scotland Yard, some refused to serve African
diplomats driving to and from Washington, in
spite of pleas from the State Department and
even the Governor of Maryland. At this writing
six diplomats, and in some cases their wives and
children, have been subjected to such insults-
all of them widely and bitterly reported in the
African press.
To illustrate the devotion of Marylanders to
the national interest, one restaurateur explained
that "if we serve Negroes we will be out of
business, because our regidar patrons will not
come here, and that is the story in a nutshell."
7. To the Republican organization of New
York, for its courage in nominating Mrs.
Dorothy Bell Laxcrence as its candidate for Man-
hattan borough president. Mrs. Lawrence is a
member of the two most discriminated-against
minorities in New York politics: (a) women and
(b) white Protestants. To get anywhere in the
city's public life, one ordinarily has to be not
only a man but also either a Negro, a Catholic, or
a Jew. The borough presidency— a wholly un-
necessary patronage sinecure— has traditionally
been reserved by both parties for Negroes.
Mrs. Lawrence, who happens to be highly
qualified for public office, had no real chance-
but her nomination was a heartening break away
from the old pattern of "balanced tickets" which
has long afflicted the city.
(9. To the people responsible for four hopeful
efforts to make this continent a little more
livable:
(a) The government of Quebec Province,
which began last summer to enforce, for the first
time, a twcnty-eight-ycar-old law forbidding
billboards along the province's highways. As a
result, thousands of signs and billboards were
torn down— to the joy of both Canadians and
American tourists, who can at last get an un-
marrcd look at Quebec's lovely countryside.
(b) Mrs. Mary Lasker, who probably has done
more than any other living person to rescue New
York City from its rising tide of ugliness. Five
years ago she persuaded the city to let her plant
flowers, at her own expense, along four blocks of
the mall which runs down the center of Park
Avenue. The experiment evoked so much de-
lighted comment that the municipal officials
graciously permitted her to extend her garden
for eighteen blocks more. Finally it dawned on
Mayor "Wagner and his fellow politicians that a
bit of beauty might be a political asset. They
took the project over for the city, and even began
to experiment with plantings of flowers and
greenery along Fifth Avenue and a few other
streets.
(c) Shell Oil Company, for its decision to drop
all advertising of its products on billboards, and
to concentrate its consumer advertising exclu-
sively in newspapers. At one stroke it not only
withdrew support from the nation's No. 1 Eye-
sore Industry, but gave a much-needed boost to
the country's press— which has found it increas-
ingly hard to survive under rising costs and the
siphoning away of advertising by TV and other
media.
(d) The California Roadside Council for pub-
Satellites travel so fast that an IBM
computer system is being used to
give U.S. scientists continuous, up-to-
the-second information about them.
There's only one way to know exactly
what a satellite is doing in space. Fol-
low it mathematically, making calcula-
tions as fast as information comes in
from the satellite. This means using
high-speed computers linked to ground
tracking stations. Working with the
National Aeronautics and Space Ad-
ministration, IBM has developed such
a system for the U.S. space program.
It includes large-scale IBM computers
at Bermuda, Cape Canaveral, and the
Goddard Space Flight Center just out-
side Washington, D.C.
When a satellite is launched from
Cape Canaveral, the computers make
continuous predictions of the satellite's
course. Drawing on telemetry and radar
data from stations a round the globe, the
system continues to track the satellite in
orbit. For recovery of a space capsule.
the computer system calculates when to
fire retro-rockets in order to bring the
capsule down within the recovery area,
and also predicts the point of impact
within that area.
This system is one of the most power-
ful computer-communications networks
in the world. IBM is helping to develop
information systems like this to han-
dle the increasingly complex data re-
quirements of govern-
ment, business and sci-
ence in the space age.
IBM
Photographed at Loch Lomond, Scotland, by "21" Brands
^Mly it takes 42 fine highland whiskies (plus a wee bit
of Loch Lomond) to make Ballantine's
Almost all good branded Scotch Whiskies are made up of
combinations of several individual whiskies. The quality
of the individual whiskies used— and in what propor-
tion they are used— is what determines the flavor and
charactpr of a brand.
Ab(A< r 12 whisky barrels, one each of the
fifif" " I'l "scotches that are harmonized tf) make
Maliaiili Whv 42? Because each of these Scotches
hasitsow' ';-:;,• live personality. (Can \ou notice the
' - of the Scotches in the tester's
■ '' I Once these 42 whiskies are
suf)tle colo
frla'^sfs .il'ii)
\SC(\ III
'Ik; result is Ballantine's
pleasing, sunny-light flavor and gentle disposition.
The lake in the background above is Loch Lomond.
Its water is used in an important step during the mak-
ing of Ballantine's. when the matured whiskies are
brought to the proper proof. Being uncommonly soft,
this water lends some of the Loch's celebrated serenity
to the spirit.
What you pour from the Ballantine's bottle is authen-
tic Scotch Whisky — never brash or heavy ... nor so
liinph light that it merely teases the taste buds. Just
a feu reasons \\h\: The more yon know about
Scotch the more you like liallanline''s^.
BOTUEO IN SCOTLAND • BUNDED SCOTCH WHISKY • 86 PROOF • IMPORTED BY "21" 'BninAs. HoC.N.Y.C.
19
THE EDITOR'S EASY CHAIR
lishing a handbook which tells
ordinary private citizens what they
can do to beautify their own
communities. In specific, step-by-
step terms, it explains how residents
can join forces to make their town
more attractive . . . how to landscape
highway approaches . . . how to en-
courage improvement of private
property . . . how to get rid of street-
side eyesores* . . . how to use city
planning aids and services . . . how
to make tiic most of key locations . . .
and dozens of other practical meas-
ures for improvement. The booklet
is illustrated with hundreds of ex-
amples of what already has been ac-
complished in California cities-
demonstrating that "civic beauty has
real, tangible value" in attracting
new residents and new business
firms. Copies of the booklet, en-
titled "More Attractive Connnunitics
for California," can be obtained
from the California Roadside Coun-
cil, Inc., 12 Garces Drive, San
Francisco, 27.
9. To Morris L. Ernst, New York
Inioyer, for his somexvhat eccentric
* In the hisl Clontifrcssional debate on
the Neuberger Amendment to curb
lMlll)oar(ls on the new lederal lii<^ln\'ays.
Senator Case, Republican from South
Dakota, read to liis colleagues a story
from Mark Twain's A Tramp Abroad.
As Twain reported it, an American
patent medicine peddler painted his slo-
gan on a big rock in one of Switzer-
land's scenic valleys. He was captured
and dragged into court. When the judge
discovered he was an American, he said
to him:
"You are from a land where any in-
solent that wants to is privileged to
profane and insult Nature, if by so do-
ing he can put a sordid penny in his
pocket. But here the case is clifferent.
Because you are a foreigner and igno-
rant, I will make the sentence light— you
will immediately remove every trace of
your offensive work, you will pay a line
of ten thousand francs, you will suffer
two years imprisonment at hard labor,
you will then be horsewhipped, tarred
and feathered, deprived of your ears,
ridden on a rail to the edge of town,
and banished forever. The severer pen-
alties are omitted in your case— not as a
grace to you, but to that great republic
which had the misfortune to give you
birth."
Regrettably, however. Senator Case
did not ask Congress to incorporate the
Twain Penalties in its anti-billboard
legislation.
one-man campaign to improve the
quality of college teaching.
Out of his own pocket, Mr. Ernst
has established ."$100 annual awards
at the University of Texas and Wil-
liams College, Massachusetts, for the
teacher who does most "to excite the
minds" of his students. Each year
the winner will be selected, not by
the faculty, but by a group of
"honorable, thoughtful," and aca-
demically outstanding students.
The winner is required to spend
his ,5100 on books— outside of his
own field of specialization. On the
theory that most professors have to
be tlirifty in their book-buying, con-
fiin'ng themselves largely to their
own special fields, he thought it
would be fun for his awardee to
have "a wonderful hour or two to
splurge" in a bookstore. As a by-
product, such a spree may result in
better teaching, by broadening the
professor's acquaintanceship with
modern fiction, poetry, and other
exotic subjects.
Incidentally, while he was at the
Uni\'ersity of Texas arranging for
his award, Mr. Ernst spent many
hours talking with students and
facidtv members. He left convinced
tliat "this is the most underestimated
campus in America" . . . that it is
"bubbling with more intellectual ex-
citement than I have encountered at
any Eastern college" . . . and that
Texas itself has not yet realized
"what an extraordinary intellectual
renaissance it has on its hands."
LAST December it was suggested
here that the Christmas card habit
was getting out of hand; and that
instead of overburdening the mails,
and our friends, with another bushel
of greetings, we might all do well to
send an equivalent amount of money
to CARE, to help feed hungry chil-
dren in countries overseas.
Richard W. Renter, the executive
director of CARE, has since reported
that these "sentiments are being
echoed far and wide." The number
of individuals "choosing to express
their Christmas greetings through
CARE" is steadily increasing— and
"more and more corporations are
sending CARE packages overseas in
the name of people to whom they
previously sent the customary gifts."
So best wishes to everybody for a
Cardless Christmas.
PEIISBE
The biographer James Boswell,
we now know from his journals,
was the most human of men, for-
ever making good resolutions and
breaking them, yet capable of re-
markable patience and determina-
tion when his goal was important
to him. After all, only a man of
enormous persistence and monu-
mental ambition could have con-
ceived and carried to completion
that masterpiece of English biog-
raphy that is "The Life of Samuel
Johnson."
There's probably more than a
bit of Boswell in most of us. We
have more good intentions than
we can make come true. But there
is usually one project dear to our
hearts that we give ourselves whole-
heartedly to — a job, a hobby, a
favorite charity, or, perhaps most
satisfactory of all, a family.
Have you made plans for your
family's future, for their share of
the good things of life.' If not,
why not take an important step
today.' Send for a copy of our
basic booklet called "How to In-
' vest in Stocks and Bonds." It's not
an open sesame to wealth, but it is
a straight-to-the-point introduc-
tion to investing as a means of
improving your lot — and your
family's. It's free for the asking,
with no strings attached.
s
MEMBERS N. Y. STOCK EXCHANGE AND OTHER
PRINCIPAL STOCK AND COMMODITY EXCHANGES
MERRILL LYIMCH,
PIERCE,
FENNER & SMITH INC
70 PINE STREET. NEW YORK 5. NEW YORK
LONDON 110 Fenchurch Street
PARIS 7 Rue de la Paix
AFTEJl
HOURS
YOU TELL THEM, POP—
YOU'VE GOT THE VOX
By Noel Perrin
Mr. Perrin teaches English at Dart-
mouth and is the author of a hook of
essays, "A Passport Secretly Green."
AN AGE that is prepared to
make serious decisions on the
basis that 71 per cent of Americans
in some survey would rather be dead
than Red, or that 42 per cent in
some othei' disirust Mi". Kennedy, or
that 14 per cent think Walt Disney
shoidd be Presitlent— such an age is
boinul to be interested in the e^roup
thinking of its ancestors. In particu-
lar, it should be inteiested in a
curious document that came to light
last spring. A friend of mine who
works for the Census Bureau foinid
it in an old brass-bound chest. He
was down in a storeroom helping to
pack recorils for shipment to an
atomic shelter ^vhen he stumbled
across this old chest in a back corner.
Naturally he put his work down and
opened it. Inside he found a thick
folder tied up with crumbling string.
Across the front was a title written
in confident black script:
"A Trustie and Reliable Survey of
Publick ResjDonse to the Proposed
AV'ar with England. Prepared by Ben
Franklin Associates and the Adams
Polling Company, by Order of (he
First Continental Congress, 1774."
My friend is not a scholar, and I
don't guarantee that what follows
is letter-perfect. But allowing for
minor mistakes (and correcting ye to
the aftei ihc first phiase or two), this
is ho\\' the leport read:
()\ \ I: filih of Sepiember, 177), yc
delegates to )e C(;niinental Congitss
commissioned a study of Publick
Opinion in ye thirteen colonies, that
they might better know the will of
the People. Foi- no great Operation
on the Body Politick sliould be ap-
proved, unless fiist iheie be a taking
of the Pulse. Fo this end, fort) able
i7ien were hired, eadi a trained (jues-
tioner, such as a Barber, Newspaper-
man, or Common Gossip. These
forty ditl each interrogate one luin-
dred others, the most of the (Com-
mon Sort, but some also of the
Gentry. To every m;m wcie put foui
(]uestions. First, Are yoti content
with the ])resent System of Ciovern-
ment, that we be ruled from Lon-
don? Second, Do you resent h;t\ing
British Troops quartered in xour
Colony? Third, What other Ciriev-
ances have you against England?
Fourth, Suppose the Colonies should
declare their Independence from the
British Crown. ^V^ould you take arms
to preserve that Independence?
The Survey hath been completed
this sixteenth of October. Here
followeth a Summation of the Find-
ings, together with an Appendix
composed of complete Tables of
Statisticks for each Colony.
To the first question, 1,116 peojile
did say they were satisfied with the
present System, and that we shoiUd
not change; 983 were not satisfied,
and said we should; and 422 did ask,
What System? (These last included
many Frontiersmen.) One thousand,
ioui- hundred and se\enty-ninc did
say ihey had not tliought on the
matter.
To the v,((,,i)(l (|ucsiion, concein-
ing ilu; (hiaitcriug Act, the response
was in no wise expected. Thirty-o,
of thirty-two men questioned in A
gusta, Georgia, did say they wish'
there were more British Troo
among us. All of eight maid-servar
in New- York City felt the same wi-
lt was even so throughout the C'
onies, save only among Nests of E^
heads in Boston, among Tutors
Colleges, and among those on who
the troops are actually Quartere
For example:
"Someone's got to fight those din
blasted Indians," said a Connectici
Merchant.
"Best customers I've got," spal
an Albany Tavern-keeper. "Let's nc
kick out the chaps now."
"Their officers make the only civ
Escorts for Quadrilles," a Youn
Lady of Quality told our intern
gator in Philadelphia, while he
Hair-dresser did giggle and adc
"Nay, who can resist a Red Coat?"
In sum, it appeareth that only a
Informed Minority have the leas
understanding of the Trouble (Ic
alone the Expense) brought on u
by the j)icsence of this Tyrannizim
Army.
Of sniiiller Grievances the intei
rogators found a many. Almost 1,70(
of those (]uestioned do much con
demn the tax on Tea. Several lead
iiig Clergymen wished there migl'y^
be a Bishop in America, to the enc
that we should be spared our dt.
grading dependence on the Lord
Bisliop of London. Many in Towns
complain fiercely of the Stamp Ta>
(though many more do not seem tc
understand what it is). One hundred
and sixty-three persons objected in
jirinciple to Taxation without Rep
resentation. Most Merchants oppose
the Restrictions on foreign trade and
manufacture.
But it must be admitted that a
majority do not hold even one
Grievance strongly. And while hun-
dreds were filled with Intelligent
Anger, it was discouraging to find
that those who gave Frippery An-
swers were numbered in the Thou-
sands. A few examples will suffice
A New-York apprentice, cjuestionei
on Tea, said, "Beat it. Dad. 1 fr
quent the Coffee House." A Ne\^
Hamj)shire politician (much fudclle<
with rum, and speaking his Mind
extolled monarchy openly. "Th
liriiish, God bless them, they're mak
ing baronets by the bushel. Loo
at Sir William Pepperell and Si
John Bernard in Massachusetts-Bay.
There's Sir William Johnson in
New-York, Sir Nathaniel Duckin-
field in North-Carolina, Sir James
Wright in Georgia. I aim to be Sir
Silas myself. Begone with your
damned treason." A Scottish black-
smith in Virginia said King George
had an Honest Face, the which was
enough for him. Seven brothers who
own a rich farm in Pennsylvania ad-
mitted they had never even heard of
the Stamp Tax, and when it was ex-
plained to them, they said they
woiddn't care if it was doubled.
"None of us reads, none of us stidies
law, and none of us aims to do
either," the eldest brother explained.
To our final Cjuestion, "Would
you take up arms for Independ-
ence?", ihc replies were equally
discouraging. Nine hundred and
sixty-two men eithei said Haiiy. Nav,
or threatened to report our Inter-
rogator lo the Cioxernor. Seven
hinidred and three, mostly in New-
England, said flatly, Yea. Another
839 said they might, "be that I get
riled u|)," or if the pay is to be good.
Twelve hundred and thirty-seven
would not say, and generally de-
manded to know who would look
aftei their farms and keep off the
Indians if they came East to fight.
The remaining 259 were Females,
and they were not asked the last
question.
When the entire Survey is con-
sidered, the Interrogators are of the
opinion that there doth not exist
Publick Support for the projjosed
"War. Oiu- people are ill-informed,
scantly concerned, and sadly Muddy
in their Thinking. Opinion, what
there be of it, lieth more against the
War than for it. No cause can hope
to succeed with so little Backing. We
therefore recommend to the honour-
able Delegates that the Continental
Congress be disbanded, and that
plans for Independence be laid on
the Shelf. If conditions warrant, an-
other and larger Survey might per-
haps be profitably made in ten years,
(signed) Ira Beadle
Director of the Survey
October 16, 1774
• • •
IT ^VAS late afternoon when my
friend finished deciphering all this.
Despite the obviously epochal nature
of his find, he decided to save the
tables of statistics for the next day
and get on home. Then, as he was
RICKS OF HARD MAPLE are still burned
in the Hollow for charcoal to smooth out
Jack Daniel's Tennessee sippin' whiskey.
Ever since Jack Daniel built
our small distillery in 1866,
we've been Charcoal
Mellowing our whiskey.
That calls for bringing
in hard maple, sawing it up,
and rick-burning it in the
open air. The charcoal is packed tightly in vats
10 feet deep, and our whiskey
is seeped down through it . . .
drop by drop. We're sure
Mr. Jack would still approve
of the sippin smooth results.
And after a sip, we believe,
you'll approve, too.
CHARCOAL
MELLOWED
6
DROP
BY DROP
©1961, Jack Daniel Distillery, Lem Motlow, Prop., Inc.
TENNESSEE WHISKEY • 90 PROOF BY CHOICE
DISTILLED AND BOTTLED BY JACK DANIEL DISTILLERY . LYNCHBURG (Pop. 384), TENN.
22
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AFTER HOURS
closing the folder and preparing to
put it back in the chest, he noticed
something written under the title.
Closer examination showed it to be
a dozen lines of script, in a handwrit-
ing he swears he has seen before. It
was a note running thus:
"Barber Beadle's report was read
to the assembled Delegates this
seventeenth day of October. When
'twas finished, a Poltroon among us
rose. 'Gentlemen,' said he, 'four
thousand Colonials can't be wrong.
We had better give up all thought
of Independence.' An hubbub fol-
lowed.
"Then stood up one of our great-
est men. 'No Statesman,' he began
'was ever moved by the Casual Opin-
ions of a few thousand Idlers. What
the People do is like to be sound,
but their Chance Answers are so
much Moonshine.
" 'Gentlemen, we know our cause
is just. We know that Independence
must come. The flow of History can
be slopped neither by a hinatick
King nor an ignorant Populace. Let
us get on with plans for the war.'
"When the Cheering had died,
'twas Voted that the Survey be put
aside. 'Twas further Voted that as
it was the First of its kind, so let it
be the last. God grant that in our
future no just call to Arms shall be
stilled— nor no foolish one made
louder— through such Trumpery as
this."
My friend has still not learned
from his subconscious which of our
founding fathers wrote that note.
He refuses to give the original to me,
or to anyone else. But he has made
me a copy, and 1 have thought it
well, without further delay, to sub-
mit it to a candid world.
HARK, THE EXECUTIVE
COMMITTEE SINGS
The folloiving office memo was
tapped out, during his After Hours,
by a gentleman who happens to be an
executive of a large corporation.
Memorandum: Yuletide Greetings
From: Director of Communications
To: Saliiried Personnel
/. Purpose of this Memorandum
Fo rcgulari/e and intiodiice or-
derly patierns into the iriiiismission
of Yuletide greetings among Com-
pany personnel.
//. General Considerations
While the Company grants all
reasonable discretion to employees,
it cannot give its endorsement to
cards or other forms of greetings
which do not reflect good business
judgment. For example:
1. Cards with an unduly religious
bias, either in their illustrations or
their sentiments, are not considered
consistent with the sound business
sense which forms the basis of the
corporate image.
2. Cards bearing foreign languages
or illustrating the celebration of
Christmas by foreigners are not
deemed advisable.
3. Cards of unduly small size (less
than 10 square inches) tend to sug-
gest that either the Company or the
individual employee is in an un-
wholesome financial condition.
4. Humor has.no place within the
solemnity of this context.
5. Reference to a "prosperous New
Year," while appropriate for trans-
mission to customers, is considered
totally inappropriate with respect to
suppliers who may be recipients of
Yuletide messages.
Note: SiriQe the Company's con-
tract with the Union expires on June
30, it is imperative that no message
to employees represented by the
Union convey wishes for a "prosper-
ous" New Year.
6. Allusions to or draAvings of
Santa Glaus, St. Nicholas, Father
Christmas, or any other symbol sug-
gesting advocacy of welfare or some-
thing for nothing are to be avoided
as incompatible with the free com-
petitive enterprise system.
///. Preparation of Greetings
The work of addressing, signing,
and otherwise preparing cards shall
be done only on employees' own per-
sonal time— subject, however, to
these provisions:
A. By special order of the Di-
rector, Employee Benefits and Ad-
ministration, sick leave may be used
for this work.
B. The Company offices shall be
open from the hours of 7:00 a.m.
until 12:00 noon on the second
Saturday before Christmas for the
preparation of cards.
C. Under no circumstances shall
fatigue incident to the preparation
of greetings be allowed to inicrfcif
AFTER HOURS
with an employee's normal work.
D. Employees shall open and ex-
amine cards only on their own time.
IV. Distribution Procedures
A. Grade Level of Recipient
1. The sending of greetings up-
ward shall be limited to personnel
not more than two (2) grades above
the sender. (This procedure further
implements the Company's continu-
ing efforts to reduce the burdens of
excess executive paper work.)
2. The sending of greetings down-
ward shall be limited to personnel
one (1) level below the sender. To
send greetings further down could
be construed as implying relation-
ships and/or advancement prospects
which do not exist.
3. The sending of greetings to re-
cipients on the same level as the
connnunicator shall be unrestricted
except that the Christmas season
and its connnunication ()|)portunities
shall not be used to build "jjolitical"
support for the communicator or
otherwise advance his personal am-
bitions.
B. Postage
1. The use of the Company's
stamjis or postage meters shall be
restricted to members of the Execu-
ti\c Committee and executives re-
porting directly to such members
provided, however, that with express
permission of their manager on a
casc-by-case basis, sales executives dis-
tributing cards to actual or prospec-
ti\'e customers may also use Company
stamps or meters.
2. The Company's internal mail
service may be used by employees
foY the distribution of greeting cards
ia quantities equaling the result of
dividing 1 00 by the number of levels
the sender is belo^v the level of mem-
ben of the Committee.
C. Verbal Greetings
The distribution of appropriate
verbal Christmas greetings may be
conducted without restriction during
the lunch hour and on employees'
o'\\'n time before and after regularly
scheduled working hours.
V. Disclaimer
This memorandum is intended
solely to implement the intent of
the Board of Directors and Executive
Committee in the observance of the
Season, and nothing herein shall be
coastrued as unduly restricting the
freedom of employees to express
their sentiments.
12 PAGES - DERNIERE EDITION
ction, Admuiistration: 5, r. des ItaHcnt, ParI$-IX'. •— Directeurt Hubert BEUVE-MERIT
l'4 «
adopCoa ^
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tant la ea)m« a EUsoce'hvil.s ^'
s'ahatiendtont d'aller oa Kalar<f/^*'*<i>jr
Si telle iiaU la pensee du lEimstie
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on eonsideis a Biuxell« qui! s agit ^^ b«!ges* investuent LuJuaboutq
maia
oir appi^
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>? r i>t ,)M')/!''. / pn'i'.f la.
jM'i !' t p-e<>ct npation<;
et t )iit":i''^-t ons d<.' t
paiw conaoUfM' »
piopos, teiHi.s sur un loi
ft 'raduitsr aii'tsilot en
(Hit e'i pour effet, cie n
p'> homme-. pAiuu leu-.t
-ub.s.>.la!t q u e 1 a VI e inqin^!
Aii liulieu df '.H matujee
deroulee ta cereirsonie ties cou
de%ant le P C. des troupes d«
N,U.. ou s'etaient mai>s6s un *
! chenitnt de la forte publUju
lime TOmpaa»te MjiJil«te w
eU«« decouvciient loB cotp« d« diKsi-
ptet jju* !« r^ j^ ^ ^yjj, „oir» coupe* •» in5»-
For nearly 200 years, the delicious dry luxury of Hine
Cognac has made this export of France the unques-
tioned choice of discriminating people the world over.
31 j5r3Jtd$rilltt, N. Y. C. COGNAC BRANDY • 84 PROOF
You see htm in all the best places, driving
the expensive car, flying the oceans, tread-
ing the soft carpeting of the executive suite
—the 1961 Arfierican, living it up on nothing
down.
And the guy who works for him has
caught the virus, too. It's so easy to spend
those two weeks island hopping the Carib-
bean (Pay Nothing Until April!), pick up
that outboard, replace that-old washing
machine. Buy now. Why not? Pay later? Ah,
there's the rub.
"How Serious The Challenge?"— an Au-
tumn series on our national economy by
the seven CBS Owned Radio Stations— ex-
plored the credit explosion on its premiere
program, "Credit Buying: How Much Are We
In Hock?"— produced by WCBS New York.
On succeeding weeks the other six sta-
tions produced illuminating programs on
other phases of our economy: "Employ-
ment: East" (WCAU Philadelphia); "Em-
ployment: West" (KCBS San Francisco);
"Old Age: Care for Senior Citizens" (KNX
Los Angeles); "Urban Development and the
Housing Problem" (KMOX St. Louis); "Civil
Defense" (WEEI Boston); and "Wages and
Prices" (WBBM Chicago).
Who cares about statistics? We heard a
voice of misery finding new hope in the
promise that his Pennsylvania ghost town
would be brought back to life. We heard the
octogenarian who is finishing his years on
Social Security. We heard the factory owner.
the cabinet member, the banker, the miner
with sweaty face. Local people on their lo-
cal stations, digging into national problems.
Only the CBS Owned Radio Stations—
with their strategic locations and skilled
staffs, who know what the problems are
and how to present them— could explore
such questions in depth. And only these
stations did it.
This is grown-up radio, full-range radio,
idea radio — presenting challenging
thoughts to substantial people. People with
real concern, real influence, real money in
their wallets.
These are the people you reach most
often, with most impact, on . . .
THE CBS OWNED RADIO STATIONS
WCBS New York, WBBM Chicago, WCAU Philadelphia, WEEI Boston, KMOX St. Louis, KCBS San Francisco, KNX Los Angeles.
Represented by CBS Radio Spot Sales.
Harper
magaHzi n e
THE STRANGE ROMANCE
BETWEEN JOHN L. LEWIS
AND CYRUS EATON
NAT CALDWELL AND
GENE S. GRAHAM
The first full report on a case revealing
a conspiracy in which a big union
and a big capitalist got together to force
little coal mines out of business
and thousands of miners out of work.
ALMOST unnoticed by the rest of the
country, the story of an amazing conspiracy
in the coal industry has been unfolded in a
federal court in Tennessee.* The trial record
and the verdict have incalculable implications—
* In the United States District Court for the Eastern
District of Tennessee. Northern Division. John L.
Lewis and Josephine Roche, as Trustees of the United
Mine Workers of America W'elfare and Retirement
Fund, and Henry G. Schmidt, Trustee, Plaintiffs, vs.
James M. Pennington, Raymond PhilHps and Burse
Phillips, individually and trading as Phillips Brothers
Coal Company, Defendants, vs. United Mine Workers
of America, Cross-Defendant. Civil Action No. 3431.
for business, for union members, for every tax-
payer, and perhaps even for the future of Ameri-
can law and politics. It is too early to say whether
the consequences will be good, evil, or a mixture
of both. But testimony at the trial discloses,
among other things, that:
(1) The United Mine Workers— whose chief-
tain, John L. Lewis, is an almost mythical hero
of American labor— quietly became a big stock-
holder in some of the nation's largest coal mines.
(2) A union-controlled company broke a strike
of the UMW's own members. They worked in
small "inefficient" mines which competed with
those mechanized through the use of UMW
money.
(3) The union was found guilty of conspiring
with large coal companies to monopolize the
soft-coal industry and drive small firms into
bankruptcy.
(4) The union's money was used to finance
certain big deals of Cyrus S. Eaton who in return
helped mastermind the UMW's financial ad-
ventures. (The cozy relationship between Lewis
and Eaton looks odd, in the light of Lewis' im-
placable war against Communists in his union
and Eaton's proudly proclaimed friendship with
Nikita Khrushchev. In fact, however, this is
26
JOHN L. LEWIS AND CYRUS EATON
Lewis' second unlikely marriage of conven-
ience-Communist stalwarts were numbered
among his tools and supporters when he or-
ganized the CIO in the 1930s.)
(5) As financier of coal mines, Lewis' union
now sits on both sides of the bargaining table-
in effect making deals with itself.
(6) The trial disclosed that these manipula-
tions have resulted in a sharj) drop in the price
of coal to consumers— including the Tennessee
Vallev .Authority, biggest customer of all and
long the darling of .American liberals.
(7) A companion result is the rapid growth of
automation in coal mines, a sharp reduction in
the number of miners (and union members), and
a steadv rise in relief costs for men whose jobs
are gone forever.
(8) More surprisingly— the union's bankroll
has not dwindled with its membership. Profitable
investments pour dividends into the treasury.
.\nd the multi-million-dollar Welfare and Retire-
ment Fund still collects forty cents for every
ton of soft coal mined— whether it is dug by men
or machines.
(9) By drastically cutting production costs the
UM"\V-management combine has apparently re-
vived the dying coal industry and enabled it to
compete once more with other fuels.
On balance, does this add up to Good or Bad?
.\n answer is equally difficult for traditional
liberals (who grew up in reverence of Lewis,
TVA, and low prices for the consumer) and
traditional conservatives (who grew up hating
Lewis, TVA, unions, and featherbedding). In
this unprecedented situation— which may yet be-
come the pattern for other major industries—
both liberals and conservatives find it hard to
say which side they are on. Maybe both labels
have lost their traditional meanings.
For more than five years the men most deeply
affected refused to believe what was happening.
The story has now been confirmed under oath.
And on May 19, 1961, a federal jury in Knoxville
found the United Mine Workers guilty of violat-
Nathan G. Caldwell, a staff writer for the
"Nashville Tennessean" specializes in regional
economic and social problems. He has been both
a Nieman and a Rosenwald Fellow. His persistent
research on TVA activities over twenty years
brought lo light much of the information in this
article.
Gene S. Graham, an editorial writer, columnist,
and cartoonist for the "Tennessean," has covered
all government beats, from city to federal. He
witnessed the Widow's Creek incident.
ing the antitrust laws— although hitherto all
unions had been exempt from such prosecutions.
In effect, the case held that the exemption does
not apply when a union becomes part of owner-
ship or conspires with its ancient enemies in
restraint of trade.
The final act in this drama is still to be writ-
ten, for the Knoxville verdict is being appealed.
At this point, however, it is possible to present
for the first time a com]:)lete synopsis of the plot
and the cast of characters. Properly the spotlight
should focus first on the star performers.
Merging!, Routes to Power
JOHN L . L E W I S , now eighty-two, is a
coal miner's son who battered his way up from
an Iowa coal pit to style himself— and truly be-
come—"The roaring lion of labor." Using his
fists— or whatever weapon was at hand— he fought
his way upward, crushing opponents within and
without the house of labor. He reached the top
in 19.85 when he created, within the AFL, the
nation's first great industrial union crossing all
craft lines. A year later he imperially led the
C^IO out of the parent Federation.
Rumor had it in those days that his eyes were
on the White House. No one laughed when
Huey Long told a reporter, "Old Huey thinks
John L. will be the most powerful man in
-America unless I get there first." Secure in his
might, Lewis defied the President and the Sti-
preme Court by calling four major strikes during
World War II.
After the mines had been seized by the federal
government, Lewis made the Welfare Fund
royalty part of his peace terms with the govern-
ment and the mine owners. The owners agreed
to pay ten cents into its treasury for every ton
of coal mined. The sum has since been raised
to forty cents a ton and the Fund's annual in-
come from royalties and investments is around
$125 million— and going up annually with the
recovery of the coal industry. Lewis is chairman
and chief executive officer of its three-man board
of trustees. Last year he exchanged the title of
President of the United Mine Workers for that
of President Emeritus. His full salary, however,
continues for life, as does— it is widely believed—
his awesome power over the union's policies*
* "My friends, I speak in behalf of my associate
«)lficers, and Mr. Labor Leader himself, who has so
ably guided and directed me in whatever I have
done . . ." —John Owens, International Secrctary-
rrcasincr, at the 1960 Convention of the UM\V.
BY NAT CALDWELL AND GENE S. GRAHAM
27
and its general funds. These, apart from the Wel-
fare Fund, have assets, according to the union
itself, of $104 million.
Lewis was worshiped by his miners— for the
high wages he had won them, their retirement
;dlowance of SI 00 a month, free medical care
in ten modern union-run hospitals, and countless
other benefits. But in the 1940s it began to
apj:)car ihat he had won too much. Coal was a
si(k industr\, fast losing out in the competitive
race with cheaper, more easily transported fuels.
ITnless he coidd somehow mount a new offensive,
Lewis' days of glory were over.
He was in his seventies now— a very different
John L. Lewis from the firebrand of the 1930s.
Politically an archconservative but resilient as
ever. King Lewis went into his counting house,
the National Bank of Washington. Earlier he
had bought what is in effect a controlling inter-
est in this. I he ihird-largest bank in the capital.
Here were the millions and millions he had won
foi his men— tax-free and for all practical pur-
poses his to use for the union as his keen in-
tellect dictated. Sound judgment told him how-
ever, that he needed a coimselor— a man schooled
in finance.
Today the men of labor's big time are com-
monly on easy terms with their counterparts in
big business: Lewis was a pioneer in achieving
and trading upon a rapport with the enemy.
Back in 1937 he had scored his greatest collective-
bargaining victory- the unionization of Big Steel
—not on the pi(kct line or via sitdown strikes,
bui b) having breakfast with the chairman of
the board of U.S. Steel, Myron C. Taylor, at
A\'ashington's Ma\flower Hotel.
To chaperone his own debut into industrial
banking Lewis picked an old friend with a special
economic affinity to the coal mines— Cyrus S.
Eaton, a magnate not only in coal but also in
su( h interlocking fields as steel, rails, and
utilities.
Now seventy-eight, Eaton was born in Nova
Scotia, came to this country around the turn of
tlie century, and became a naturalized citizen at
thirty. He is one of the nation's wealthiest men
and is widely admired for his charming ec-
centricity. His home is a luxurious farmhouse
in Northfield, Ohio, complete with English but-
ler. From his base in Cleveland's Terminal
Tower, his tentacles— and his often unorthodox
views— reach out to power plants in Kansas and
to power politics in the Kremlin.
Some say his Hirtation Avith the Soviets springs
from boredom with the lej^etitive stacking up of
millions. Others think he rather relishes public
scorn. Still others see him as honest and sincere.
Everyone who knows him is agreed that he
thrives on— indeed needs— public attention. And
the primary key to his personality, it seems to us,
is that he is an international financier. His in-
vestments know no national boundaries and he
is, in any event, always open for possible deals in
which Cyrus Eaton could turn a few million.
It was at the feet of John D. Rockefeller that
Eaton first learned how fortunes are built; but
he has added some twentieth-century refinements
to the art. He is, for instance, considered the
inventor of the leverage technique in American
finance— the skillful use of small minority hold-
ings to control a gigantic firm. He was credited
with crashing the Insull Midwest utility empire
in this fashion in the early 'thirties and was ac-
cused of helping wreck the most serious postwar
challenge to the automotive Big Three by selling
Kaiser-Frazer shares short.
For a good many years Eaton has served the
UMW behind the scenes as a financial adviser.
In return Lewis helped Eaton to maintain
harmonious relations with the unions in his com-
panies. What was— in union language— a sweet-
heart relationship blossomed into fiscal matri-
mony in 1951.
In that year the UMW began acting as Eaton's
banker, lending him many millions of union
funds. The extraordinary terms and the ramifica-
tions of these deals, which were until recently a
closely guarded secret, will be discussed presently.
Reciprocally, Eaton taught Lewis the fine art
of leverage. An apt pupil, Lewis wound up in a
position to speed the mechanization of the coal
industry, in control of major transportation lines
for the movement of coal by rail and water, and
owner of one of the nation's ten largest coal-
mining operations. As with other industrial
baronies, these gains were not achieved without
conflict nor without public attention. The event
which brought them first into the limelight was
the collision of Eaton and Lewis with an ego to
match their own.
Millionaire on the Barricades
JUSTIN P O T T E R-generally known as
Jet— is Tennessee's richest man, with a fortune
estimated at $200 million. He was born in
Liberty (population 317) where his father pre-
sided over a roll-top desk in the town's bank.
When he was eight the family moved to Nash-
ville, where ihc) now control two banks— one
being the city's third-largest.
28 JOHN L. LEWIS AND CYR
Jet. however, had no taste for banking. He
took to the mines in the 1920s and for a while,
like Lewis, mined coal with his hands. He set
up a small coal sales firm in Nashville in 1917,
and he plowed back into coal lands in western
Kentucky all earnings beyond what his frugal
living standard demanded. By 1955 he owned
one of America's largest coal-mining and sales
operations— Nashville Coal Company.
Jet Potter never recognized Lewis' union. He
was among the last of the big holdouts, refusing
to fall into step even when the UMW brought
the industry's other giants into line. Hating all
unions, he welded his fourteen hundred miners
into one of the most belligerently anti-union
work forces in or out of the coal industry. If
Lewis got nasty, Jet hired guns and threw up
barricades around his mines. The barricades
held. Of all the tough nuts in a tough-nut trade,
Jet was the one Lewis could never crack.
Potter is a conservative's conservative. His
US EATON
largest single market was TV.\. Yet he despised
it. He bought full-page ads in the Chicago
Tribune to call it a "Communist rathole." He
bought a Southern farm journal which still
reiterates such charges along with miscellaneous
broadsides at all things federal or liberal. Jet
hates big, and Lewis and Eaton are two of his
biggest hates, with the maximum venom perhaps
reserved for the latter.
In 1955 Jet's health failed and he decided to
sell his mines. Eaton flew to Nashville in his
private plane determined to buy them. In busi-
ness matters. Jet is as cold as his steel-blue eyes
framed by horn-rims beneath a shock of wavy
white hair. Temporarily bedridden by a heart
attack, he demanded three times what his proper-
ties were worth. To anyone else he might have
sold out for $7 million. Just what Eaton paid is
not known— but it may well have come, all things
figured, to as much as $30 million. Until the
contract was signed Potter did not allow Eaton
TED HUGHES
HER HUSBAND
COMES home dull with coal-dust deliberately
To grime the sink and foul towels and let her
Learn with scrubbing brush and scrubbing board
The stubborn character of money.
And let her learn through what kind of dust
He has earned his thirst and the right to quench it
And what sweat he has exchanged for his money
And the blood-count of money. He'll humble her
With new light on her obligations.
The fried woody chips kept warm two hours in the oven
Are only part of her answer.
Hearing the rest, he claps them to the fire back
And is away round the house-end singing
"Come back to Sorrento" in a voice
Of resounding corrugated iron.
Her back has bunched into a hump as an insult. . . .
For they will have their rights.
Their jurors are to be assembled
From the little crumbs of soot. Their brief
Goes straight up to heaven and nothing more is heard of it.
BY NAT CALDWELL AND GENE S. GRAHAM
29
to glance at his books or to set foot on his huid.
Potter, of course, must have suspected the UMW
was behind Eaton. This had been rumored since
1951, when Eaton began buying into West Ken-
tucky Coal Company, using, it later developed,
money borrowed from UMW. When Eaton ob-
tained working control of West Kentucky Coal
Company, one of the first orders of business was
recognition of UMW for its ajiproximately three
thousand nonunion miners.
Once the Potter deal was closed, Eaton merged
the two firms (Nashville Coal, and West Ken-
tucky). Altogether, more than four thousand
miners began paying union dues. And for every
ton mined from these rich, black veins, forty
cents, from that day, dropped into the Welfare
treasury.
On Union Street in Nashville— sometimes
called the Wall Street of the South— a transaction
of this magnitude involving ihe state's best-
known capitalist does not pass unnoticed. And
the Nashville Tennessean does not cover such a
story by printing a routine handout. Several
days of reportorial digging luicovcrcd an unim-
peachable—and still undisclosed— soince. He said
that the UMW had pui up ihc more than $7-mil-
lion cash down payment that enabled Eaton to
buy out Potter. Lewis was sought unsuccessfully
for comment. Rut a high UMW sjjokesman is-
sued a flat denial. Eaton, his usual good-humored
self, laughed it off. "Young man, you are intel-
ligent," he told the persistent reporter. "Why do
you persist in that ridiculous rumor? There's
not a word of truth in that story."
But the newspaper, confident of its source,
published the story. Five years were required to
confirm it. Among the last to face the truth were
the men of the UMW.
Wildcat at Widow's Creek
GEORGE GILBERT is a union man-
first and always. In his fifties, ham-fisted
and barrel-chested, George is the UMW district
man in Sequatchie Valley, which lies southeast of
Nashville and spills into northern Alabama. The
high hogback ridges here are honeycombed with
thin-seamed veins of coal. It is a higher-quality
fuel, but harder to mine than that in western
Kentucky.
In the heart of Sequatchie Valley is TVA's
Widow's Creek steam plant. To grasp the magni-
tude of TVA's coal consumption one must realize
that the great dams with which TVA's name is
associated are no longer its chief source of elec-
tricity. In 1952, to meet the necessities of the
Korean War, it began to build steam plants,
fueled by coal. Today such plants generate 75
per cent of TVA's electric power; this year they
will burn 21 million tons of coal. The M^idow's
Creek plant clings to the west bank of the Ten-
nessee River. Until 1955 the small mines in the
nearby coal fields of Tennessee were its chief fuel
sources, though some also came by rail or river
from western Kentucky, 200 miles away.
In the autumn of 1955, Sequatchie miners
sought higher wages. The union strategy— quite
naturally— was to cut off all other coal sources
from TVy\'s Widow's Creek steam plant. The
Tennessee mine operators, anxious to raise their
prices, were not unhappy when their men took
a walk. Gilbert said it was a lockout while the
owners called it a wildcat protest against TVA.
Lewis rumbled that TVA was violating the
Walsh-Healey Act by its failure as a federal
agency to require that its suppliers pay prevail-
ing wage scales. TVA denied it, claiming, quite
correctly, that no prevailing wage had been es-
tablished for the area, as required by the Act. In
any event, the mines in the Valley closed down;
the steam plant's coal pile dwindled, and its
operations slowed.
Just short of a complete shutdown, the fuel
valve flew open as long trains began to roll in
loaded with coal from western Kentucky— most
of it from the mines Eaton had purchased from
Jet Potter, and, earlier, from the former owners
of the West Kentucky Coal Company. Tremen-
dous tow-barges plied upstream to the steam
plant's dock. The steam-plant coal pile stopped
shrinking and the success of the strike was
threatened. George Gilbert went to work.
He clustered his miners along the railroad
tracks, where their railway brothers gave friendly
aid. Only an occasional engineer refused to
honor their picket lines. At such times, the
pickets persuaded while the loaded trains stood
idle. It was a peaceful operation, patrolled by
a lone man in overalls who walked alongside the
parked coal cars to make sure none moved.
At the river front, however, the scene was
different. Barges sailed past Gilbert's landlocked
pickets. So the miners rustled up outboard
motors and boats. They set up tents at the river's
edge downstream from Widow's Creek. Putt-
putting to midstream, they pulled alongside coal-
pushing diesels, urged— without success— that the
crews turn back.
Angry miners brought arms to the river banks.
And in the night rifle fire rattled the bluffs
beneath the picket's campfires, shotgun blasts
roared through the bottoms, and pinpoints of
30 JOHN L. LEWIS AND CYR
light spat from both sides of the stream. But the
barges kept coming. And in Congress, Senator
Albert Gore, considered a moderate labor sup-
porter, denounced the miners' bushwhacking
tactics.
George Gilbert tried hard to buoy up his men
as they squatted in the mud by the river and
drank coffee brewed on sputtering campfires in
lard cans while a drizzling rain sogged their tents
and their spirits. He joked and said there was
nothing to the story the Tcnnesseon had pub-
lished about the UMW buying into West Ken-
tucky Coal Company. And when reporters
suggested that the barges running past his picket
lines were carrying union coal, he was unruffled.
"You don't believe that stuff?" he asked in his
friendly way. "That's just propaganda put out
by the union haters."
But eventually the barge shipments beat him.
His Tennessee men filtered back to the mines—
to work for |2 a day less than the wages in Ken-
tucky and the northeast Tennessee fields. But even
so, the Sequatchie Valley coal fields never fully
recovered. Slowly the big, mechanized mines to
the west captured larger and larger slices of the
Widow's Creek contracts. There was nothing
George Gilbert could do about it as he watched
one mine after another close down and his men
line up for handouts of government lard. A few
of the small mine owners, however, fought a
stubborn rear-guard action. Had they not done
so, the story here being told might still be an
unproved rumor.
Counterattack by Laiv
RAYMOND PHILLIPS and James
Pennington were joint owners of the now
defunct Phillips Brothers Coal Company. It oper-
ated a small mine in a coal field running from
Tennessee's Campbell County across the heart of
"bloody Harlan," Kentucky, where a strike was
viciously crushed in the 1930s after years of in-
termittent strong-armism by company police.
This is rugged country whose people are not
afraid of hard labor or a hard fight.
Phillips miners were all union members. "The
UMW man came by," Pennington has explained,
"and told us to sign up or he'd bankrupt us."
The company signed up but it went broke any-
how, squeezed on one side by its economy-minded
chief customer, TVA, on the other by UMW's
forty-cents-a-ton Welfare Fund royalty.
As profits thinned, the partners talked things
over and decided to (juit paying ihe royalty.
US EATON
UMW officials visited them but they were
adamant. So, in January 1958 the union's Wel-
fare Fund trustees brought suit for back royalties.
Faced with "union trouble," Phillips and Pen-
nington drove into Knoxville and got them a
lawyer. The man they selected, John Rowntree,
has a razor-keen mind which he effectively hid
behind a deliberately bumbling courtroom
manner during Lewis' testimony. For as long as
he could, he fought a delaying action, then
launched a counteroflfensive. He filed a crossbill
charging the UMW and the Welfare Fund
trustees (of whom Lewis is one) with conspiring
with the great coal combines to drive Phillips
Brothers into bankruptcy.
Rowntree had little to go on beyond the
Tennessean'^ allegation in 1955 that UMW funds
had financed Eaton's purchase of Jet Potter's
mines. The union's fiscal affairs were a legally
safeguarded secret.
Then, on September 14, 1959, the Landrum-
Griffin Act was passed. The lid was off— at least
in part— when UMW, in early 1960, filed its first
Landrum-Griffin-required financial report.
The Tenyiessenn remained the only newspaper
in the country deeply interested. On June 12,
1960, it published the first full account of this
report by UMW. Remaining gaps in the story
were filled in by union officers— and by Lewis
and Eaton— on the witness stand or in sworn
depositions. What has come to light is this:
Eaton's borrowings from the UMW amount to
more than $35 million. It seems that these loans
were made on uniquely favorable terms. If the
stocks Eaton puts up as collateral rise in value,
he can withdraw some of them; on the other
hand, if they go down, he suffers no loss; he
need put up no more collateral.*
Clearly, as a result of these loans and its own
investments, the UMW— jointly with its associates
—has a controlling interest or is in a position to
exercise effective "leverage" in:
The Chesapeake and Ohio Railroad. Eaton
put up a large block of C & O stock as col-
lateral for his first loan from the UMW which
he used to help the late Robert Young win con-
* Eaton's note, which was exhibited at the trial,
stated: "At any time prior to or at the maturity of
this note, I shall have the right to tender to the payee
the security pledged as collateral for the note in full
satisfaction of any amounts due on account of princi-
pal or interest. If such tender is made, I shall have
no further interest in the collateral or in the excess of
the value of the collateral over the amount due under
this note, and I shall have no liability for any de-
ficiency in the value of the collateral below the
amount due under this note."
BY NAT CALDWELL AND GENE S. GRAHAM
31
trol of the New York Central. The Union also
has invested directly in $16 million worth of
C & O stock.
The National Bank of Washington. The
UMW owns 40 per cent of its stock and holds
another large block as collateral for a $16.6-mil-
lion loan to the bank's president, Barney Colton.
Through the bank, the UMW has made loans of
more than $15 million to large coal mines to
mechanize their operations.
West Kentucky Coal Company. This is one of
the nation's ten largest coal companies, pur-
chased by Eaton with UMW funds. The union
owns or holds as collateral the company's com-
mon and preferred stock valued at .$10 million.
American Coal Shipping Company. The union
has invested $3.4 million in this major coal-haul-
ing steamship line and thus holds a 3.S per cent
interest in it.
UMW officials have admitted advancing loans,
secured by collateral stocks, in: Cleveland Elec-
tric Illuminating Company: Tampa Electric
Company; Union Electric Company of Missouri;
Illinois Central Railroad; Tri-Continental Cor-
poration (Eaton Investment Company). Eaton
has used UMW loans to purchase slices of stock
in all these companies. (Thanks to the demand
for electric power from Florida's burgeoning in-
dustries, not to mention Cape Canaveral, Tampa
is— after TV A— the country's fastest-growing con-
sumer of bituminous coal.)
There is no longer any doubt that the Sequat-
chie Valley strike was broken in 1955 by union-
owned barges carrying union-owned coal in
defiance of the union's own pickets. It is clear
too that the union has substantially speeded
the events which have at the same time revived
the sick coal industry and reduced its own mem-
bership rolls from a peak of nearly half a million,
in the 1930s to an estimated 75,000 today.
Phillips Brothers will be $240,000 richer if the
judgment they won is sustained in the higher
courts. But by the time the trial ended, their
mine was closed. So is the once famous nearby
Royal Blue Mine. Campbell County, Tennessee
—where 11,000 out of 26,000 residents are chroni-
cally unemployed— lies within the nation's Num-
ber One Depressed Area: Appalachia.
Phillips and Pennington are still digging coal,
stripping it out of the hillsides. Other small
operators in the area do the same, working their
bulldozers along with a dozen or so men they
employ. To get to their strips you drive along a
desolate stretch of road where a once-lush valley
looks as though it had been bombed out.
"I cannot sorrow for those pallid, underfed,
ill-nourished operators of small mines who can't
keep up with the economic procession," Lewis
said in court. "They can't live under the rule of
competition as it now exists in this free-enter-
prise nation. . . ."
As for the miners— on July 1, 1960, the Welfare
Fund trustees announced that those unemployed
for more than a year would no longer receive
free hospital and medical care. In December of
that year they cut retirement pensions from $100
to $75 a month. For men unschooled in the facts
of automation and the mysterious ways of John
L. Lewis this kind of economic realism is hard
to follow.
Hoecake for the Family
ARCHY MACALISTERisa miner
who has lived all his forty-six years in the
heart of Sequatchie Valley. Archy Macalister is
not his real name. He already has trouble
enough.
Except for a rare odd job, he is unemployed.
He has an unpainted house full of kids. The
house hangs on a hillside near a hole which spills
a great, gray mound of slate chips to the foot of
the ridge. The hole was the mine where Archy
used to work— a small "inefficient" operation like
that of Phillips and Pennington. Archy 's family
subsists quite often on a paste of water and
government flour, surplus cheese, hoecake mixed
of water and federal meal. Lately— since Kennedy
got in— they have had some meat.
Archy was one of the Widow's Creek pickets
and he was slow a-believin' what they said about
Lewis. His father mined coal before him and
taught all his boys to revere John L. Archy did,
but not any more. He is bitter and disillusioned
today.
Archy stuck with the UMW even when the fel-
lows at a nearby mine voted, by 15 to 0, to leave
it. He stayed put even when they took up his
"hospital card," though he had a hard time buy-
ing the union's story about the Welfare Fund
deficit. His sixth-grade schooling has given him
no mind for high finance but he can't see how
Lewis could lend Eaton all that money if the
fund was broke.
Still Archy clings to his union card. He figures
he'd be a fool not to. It costs him just $1.25 a
month to pay his dues and keep himself a mem-
ber in standing. He figures he's put a lot of his
cash in the fund and some day, somehow he'll'
get his back. He does not, it would seem, quite
understand how industrial progress works.
32
JOHN L. LEWIS AND CYRUS EATON
Thirty Little Operators
A SECOND lawsuit is awaiting trial in
federal district court in Chattanooga.
Thirty small Sequatchie Valley mine operators
have banded together. They charge the UMW,
Eaton, TVA, and the Louisville and Nashville
Railroad with monopoly and are asking ISO-mil-
lion damages under the antitrust laws. Following
the Knoxville verdict, the suit was modified,
excluding TVA and the L & N. This new com-
plaint seeks $10 million from the remaining de-
fendants—Eaton and the UMW— on the following
grounds: The L & N has agreed to ship coal
from the highly mechanized fields of western
Kentucky to TVA for $1.55 a ton instead of the
old rate of $2.69. Ultimately, as a result of a
discount based on tonnage, it will drop to $1.40.
"We can't compete," say the thin-seam oper-
ators. In fact they have already lost three-
quarters of the TVA market to the western
Kentucky fields. The complaint also charges
that the West Kentucky Coal Company has tidy
arrangements with its competitors— Peabody Coal
Company and other giants— to carve up the
rest of the soft-coal business. The Eaton-UMW-
controlled company owns docking facilities in
Uuiontown, Kentucky, and at New Orleans.
These are heavily used by Peabody to ship coal
to Tampa, where union cash has been invested
by Eaton in Tampa Electric Company.
Peabody, incidentally, owns a mine at Paradise,
Kentucky, where a new TVA steam plant is be-
ing built, in effect right on top of the coal
deposit. Here— by the end of this year— the
ultimate in automated mining and efficient con-
sumption will be demonstrated. The "miner"
will step inside an electric elevator, press a but-
ton, and shoot up five stories to his air-condi-
tioned "office"— the cab of the greatest power
shovel ever to tread the earth. Above him the
shovel's boom will rise for fifteen stories more, its
200-ton scoop biting out tons of earth and rock
with each rise and dip of the boom. Behind this
mastodon, two smaller monsters will each lift out
five thousand tons of coal a day.
Thus by the work of three men, $4,000 could
fall every day into UMVV^'s Welfare and Retire-
ment Fund. They will be doing the work of
three hundred miners who no longer pay dues—
and who are no longer a burden on the Fund.
What is to become of them? The UMW has
sloughed them off onto a government dole. It
has not offered one thin new dime to house or
Iced them. It has advanced no plan— as have
for instance the far less opulent meat-packers
unions— to retrain and relocate the men dis-
placed by automation. Has Lewis or the UMW
no similar responsibility?
And what of the role of TVA— the agency
created to develop a region? Today it has become
a public power agency, cost-conscious and con-
servative. It has, so far, resisted even the pleas
of President Kennedy to weigh human as well as
cost factors in its plans. Certainly it would be
hard to picture the TVA of David Lilienthal's
day collaborating in the ruthless cutting of costs
without regard for the people of the region.
And there are other implications: 50 per cent
of TVA's power production goes to vital govern-
ment operations— among them AEC's Oak Ridge
and Paducah gaseous diffusion plants; the
Marshall rocket and missile center at Huntsville;
and the Valley's growing industrial complex of
metals and chemicals.
The union and Eaton and companies with
which they have close ties control 75 per cent
of the fuel— and much of the rail and barge
facilities— serving this crucial area. The power
wielded by this group is, to put it in mildest
terms, a matter of national concern.*
At very least, it would appear that the country
—and union members— are entitled to know more
about how the vast funds the UMW manages
are being used. Provisions of the Landrum-Griffin
Act alone would not have revealed the full story
that has been told here— it took a lawsuit to do
that. Particularly urgent, it would seem, is a law
requiring full disclosure of what is being done
with the $48 billion piled up in workers' welfare
and pension funds across the nation. The AFL-
CIO supports such a disclosure plan. Not sur-
prisingly, the only opponents in labor's ranks
are Lewis and James Hoffa, who preside over the
only major funds of this kind in which manage-
ment has no voice.
Legal safeguards are a matter of considerable
urgency. For the kind of process we have
described here may well be the pattern of the
future. To live in the automation age requires
vast capital outlays, more than a sick coal in-
dustry could find either in its own till or in
banker's credit. Such survival fights leave scant
room for inhibitions about the image one
presents at the country club with a fistful of
union dough. The country club, too, is an excel-
lent place to forget about Archy Macalister.
* Following strong and sustained criticism of its
policies by the Tennessenn, TVA this October set up
a new coal-l)uying category tailored to the medium-
sized mines which have been hardest hit to date.
Harper's Magazine, December 1961
<
PAVANE FOR A DEAD DOLL
or, The pain in grandfather's neck
OGDEN NASH
I SELDOM worry about the late o( Java or Sumatra,
But 1 olten worry about the fate of the protagonist of a song once
populari/cd by The Inkspots, or maybe it was Frank Sinatra.
The past ol this swooning swain is not difficult to surmise;
He is comjjhiining bitterly about the unsportsmanlike conduct of a
group of flirty flirty guys who have upset his love-apple
cart with their flirty flirty eyes.
His anguished longing for a doll that other fellows cannot steal
woidd melt a heart of stone,
And he \'ows that he is goin' to buy a doll that nobody can steal;
vi/., a paper doll that he can call his own.
He obviously intends to sequestrate this reasonable facsimile of a
chick in some co/y hidcaAvay \\'herc its jealous owner can
indolently gloat and loll.
An ingenious notion; 1 simply ask where he's goin' to buy his
paper doll.
I pluck this question from my vows-hard-to-swallow file,
Not as a spoil-sport, but simply because in a quarter century of
searching I haven't been able to find a paper doll that would
satisfy a five-year-old, much less a starry-eyed paper
dollophile.
In my youth little girls, whether on a branch line or the Main Line,
When they wanted paper dolls they had a world to choose from,
including the fascinating Letty Lane line.
They ranged from pretty to pretty-pretty, they might have been
designed by Sir Lawrence Alma-Tadema
Or some other distinguished member of the Royal Academa;
Now, whether in bathing suits or ball gowns or uniforms or civvies,
They look as if they were designed by the people who put out ash
trays in the likeness of privies.
Not only are they a far remove from the beaux-arts,
Many of them are plywood, they are not even paper, just their
clothes are.
They are mostly part of some forgotten motion picture promotion
campaign, so if they aren't Shirley or Scarlett
They are named for some once-promising starlet.
I have hunted from hither to yon with a dedication grandfatherly and
solemn,
And I have yet to find a paper doll that is not as vulgar as a
cafe society column.
I have become reluctantly reconciled to buying moie expensive
gewgaws and folderoldrums;
Tcjday's to\ sliops are in the paper doldrums.
ELINOR RICHEY
WHAT CHICAGO
COULD BE PROUD OF
It still has a few landmarks which are
recognized from New York to Paris as historic
treasures. But Chicagoans are more
interested in night clubs and parking lots.
IN PARIS this year the Musee National
d'Art Moderne honored— of all places— Chi-
cago. A photographic exhibit of the works of
Louis Sullivan and other architects of the
"Chicago School" drew crowds of art lovers.
Critics marveled at the prophetic genius of the
men who recreated the city after the fire of 1871
and, in the process, revolutionized architecture
around the world.
Meanwhile back in Chicago, a major Sullivan
work, the Garrick Theatre Building, was getting
another kind of attention. For decades its "proud
and soaring" seventeen-story tower, a treasure
house of innovation, had aristocratically domi-
nated the grim, monotonous Loop. Now, behind
a demolition wall, it was being ground to rubble
to make room for a parking lot.
This is a commonplace occurrence in Chicago,
which has been steadily razing its most famous
buildings over the past five years. By 1970, if
the present wrecking rate continues, most of
the old landmarks will be remembered only in
photographs.
Protests from American architectural societies
and magazines have been unavailing. So have
the more recent protests of the European archi-
tectural press. Chicago finds such criticism divert-
ing, especially when it is embellished by exotic
foreign postmarks and famous names. But it has
been obdurately unmoved by what it regards as
an obstreperous "egghead protest," led by local
architecture professors and students along with a
few young practicing architects and miscellane-
ous culture enthusiasts.
What, one wonders, has become of local pride?
Here, for once, Chicago has excelled New York—
and in the arts richer than in hogs, grain, and
hardware, which have always been its dubious
distinctions. The curious explanation seems to
be that Chicagoans don't believe the black,
neglected buildings in their midst are genuinely
significant. They were skeptical in the 1930s
when New York critics and museum curators first
recognized Chicago as the cradle of modern archi-
tecture. Why, they asked, if New Yorkers thought
the style so wonderful, didn't they claim it as
their own? Few Chicagoans can see any connec-
tion between their early buildings and "New
York Modern."
Otherwise, Chicago does not slight its past.
The old Gothic water tower salvaged from the
Great Fire was proudly left in the middle of
Michigan Avenue, which curves around it. The
city is cluttered with public monuments to In-
dians, to generals, to foot soldiers, to politicians,
to dentistry, to meat cutting, to the Fort Dear-
born Massacre, to the Order of Elks, to the police-
men who fell in the Haymarket Riot, and to the
anarchists executed for perpetrating it. A cele-
brated night club is fitted out with the furnish-
ings of a noted turn-of-the-century bordello. Next
to the Fire, Chicago prizes its Prohibition Era
fame. The newspapers brag about it and so do
tourist guides. The speak-easy motif is a favorite
of restaurants and night clubs, which often
feature highballs served in china teacups and
waitresses who do the Black Bottom. The newly
popular "key clubs" (to which "members" are
sold latchkeys for up to $100) have false fronts.
Chicago Junior Leaguers can be found shimmy-
ing in "Prohibition Days" benefit revues and a
new espresso shop calls itself "The Blind Pig."
Rut, alas, the nostalgic sentiment about the good
old days of Al Capone when the sewers were
clogged with corpses does not extend to the city's
architecture. A small but devoted group of local
citizens has been trying to alter this situation
since ]9t)G.
In that year the bulldozers were heading for
Frank Lloyd Wright's famous Robie House. The
building was once voted one of the "Seven
\\'()nders of American Architecture" in a nation-
wide poll of architects. Its owner in 1950— Chi-
cago Theological Seminary— planned to raze it to
make room for a dornn'iory. (Wright commented:
"It goes to show the danger of trusting anything
spiritual to the clergy.") On the eve of demoli-
tion, however, the New York firm of Webb &
Kuap|) bought it to use as a housing-project
office.
At least two Chicagoans, however, were not
reassured by this rcjjrieve. One was Tom Stauffer,
a f()ity-\eai-<)l(l piofessor of humanities at Wilson
junior College. The other was Leon Despres, who
is the only "j)oliti(al Independent" on the City
Coiuuii. This pair decided that it was high time
to awaken Chicago to the \alue of its archi-
tectuie. The first stej), they decided, was to draw
public attention to it. Accordingly, Despres
proposed that the City Council establish a Com-
mission oil .Architectural Landmarks to designate
famous buildings and encourage their preserva-
tion. The ordinance passed and Mayor Daley
named an eight-member commission made up of
city officials and rejjresentatives of cultural or-
ganizations, with Daniel Catton Rich, then Direc-
tor of the Art Institute, as chairman. The com-
mittee took two years to make its selections. By
the end of 1959, it had chosen thirty-eight build-
ings including several contemporary ones. Large
stainless-steel plaques were prepared and pre-
sented to the building owners at an elaborate
awards banquet in the Grand Ballroom of the
La Salle Hotel. Architectural experts extolled
the aesthetic and historic values of the landmark
buildings and Mayor Daley himself passed out
the plaques.
Among the recipients were the owners of the
Garrick Theatre Building, the last remaining
example of the tower-type skyscraper with which
Sullivan pioneered the now familiar setback de-
Elinor Richey has edited and written for
magazines in Florida, West Virginia. Ohio. Neiv
i ork, and Illinois. Now in Chicago, she is married
to a history teacher.
35
sign. Built in 1892, it was equally celebrated for
its distinguished ornament and its acoustically
perfect small theatre. It had not, however,
housed legitimate drama in decades. Since 1925,
it had been owned and operated by the Balaban
& Katz movie chain. For thirty-five years the
exterior had not been cleaned, nor the inside
modernized. A garish movie marquee defaced
the once-proud facade, while pink piglets ad-
vertised a coffee shop on the other side.
LOVE AMONG
THE WRECKING CREWS
TH E building had long been an object of
special veneration to an obscure young
photographer named Richard Nickel. In his
student days at Illinois Institute of Technology,
as a class assignment he had done a photo-
documentary of a Louis Sullivan building and
had fallen in love with its lines and ornament.
Shortly thereafter the structure was marked for
demolition. Nickel photographed another Sul-
livan building, then learned it too was to go.
Baffled by this cavalier treatment of architectural
masterpieces, he joined the wrecking crews en-
gaged in dismembering the building's fine orna-
ment and detail. Nickel's was a rescue mission—
a project which was to keep him crawling over
rubble heaps for years and fill his parents' home
with salvaged treasures. Nickel systematically
visited the doomed sites with his camera in ad-
vance of the wreckers. Then he joined them
wearing crash helmet and coveralls and snared
what he could. Occasionally— as for instance to
cart off a three-quarter-ton limestone capital— he
hired a stonemason and a truck to help.
But he was unable to persuade a single Chi-
cago museum to accept one of his finds, although
a Sullivan decorative fragment is on spotlighted
display in New York's Museum of Modern Art.
The stately Garrick tower was Nickel's favorite
Sullivan building and he was relieved when it
was awarded a landmark plaque, which presum-
ably would make it immune to demolition. Then
in January I960, a small item in a Chicago paper
announced that Garrick tenants were being asked
to vacate by April 1. The building, said the
owner, was "too old-fashioned" and was "no
longer a moneymaker."
When he rallied from the shock, Nickel braced
himself for another rescue operation— to salvage
not bits and pieces but the whole building. In
short order, he joined forces with Despres and
Staufler, originators of the ineffectual plaques.
They were feeling less than optimistic. But
36
Facade and proscenium arch of the Garrick
Theatre Building.
Nickel's irresistible spirit recharged their con-
fidence. To raze the Garrick would be the
grossest desecration, they agreed. Nickel and
Stauffer set about drumming up more public
support. Despres' assignment was to block is-
suance of a razing permit.
Over the next few weeks, Nickel and Stauffer
formed a little sodality of architecture professors,
young architects, and students, writers, and one
of the city's four newspapers, the Sim-Times. For
his part, Despres succeeded in converting a fellow
alderman, Morris H. Hirsh. To their disappoint-
ment, however, the Architectural Landmarks
Commission, now under a new chairman, bowed
to the owners' judgment that the building was
unprofitable, and that the Garrick was therefore
"unfeasible for preservation."
Nickel's and Stauffer's recruits— referred to in
the press as the "architecture buffs"— plunged
into action, Avriting letters to editors and city
officials and holding protest meetings. In a picket
line, they brandishecL placards asking: "Are Com-
mercial Interests More Important Than Cul-
ttire?" and: "Does Chicago Care About Anything
But Its Gangster Reputation?" "Culti're walks
THE PICKET line" was the headline on an approv-
ing Sun-Times account. The unregenerate Chi-
cago American reported: "As unlikely a crew of
agitators as ever assembled are whooping it up in
front of the Garrick these days. Doctors of
Philosophy, Phi Beta Kappas, professors, archi-
tects, and others of that intellectual ilk were
picketing, passing out handbills, circulating peti-
tions, and declaiming yesterday."
To all this the owners— Balaban & Katz— re-
plied that they weren't downgrading Chicago but
trying to improve the city by relieving it of "a
monstrosity" and replacing it with the "most
modern parking garage in the Loop."
Out-of-town partisans sent reinforcements. Mu-
seum directors and college professors flooded City
Hall and Chicago newspapers with Save-the-
Garrick letters. They were joined by such archi-
tectural cognoscenti as the late Eero Saarinen,
Mrs. Frank Lloyd Wright, and Mies van der
Rohe. Le Corbusier wrote to Mayor Daley: "The
'Chicago School' was one of the highest impor-
tance. To demolish these works therefore seems
to be truly a sacrilege. Being a city planner my-
self, I know that it is possible to/preserve the life
and usefulness of such a building. It is a ques-
tion of imagination."
By June, Nickel dared hope the tower might
be spared. The press-dubbed "egghead protest"
had punctured Balaban & Kat/'s argument that
demolishment of the theatre would enhance the
BY ELINOR RICHEY
37
city (Mrs. Wright had pronounced Chicago
"barbaric" in not appreciating the Garrick).
Des|)res had held up the action on the razing
permit by proposing that the City Council pre-
serve the Garrick as a public landmark.
Meanwhile the architecture bufTs had come up
with what looked like a perfect solution. Since
the Garrick faced directly on the block slated
for the projected .l^fiy-million Civic Plaza, why
couldn't the city acquire it and incorporate it
into the Plaza as a general arts center? Its ex-
cellent theatre, rehearsal halls, and large well-
lit rooms would make an ideal setting for art
proje( ts. And all this could be had at the bargain
price of $1.5 million, since the owners were get-
ting won ied and had offered to sell at this figure.
Wasn't New Yoi k spending more than SI 00 mil-
lion on its new Lincoln Center, and rescuing
Carnegie Hall from the wreckers besides? San
Francisco and Los Angeles had civic cultural
centers, and Pittsburgh and Washington were
building. Could Chicago, with its big plans to
expand around St. Lawrence Seaway commerce,
afford to do less? It couldn't, agreed Aldeiinen
Despres and Hirsh. They argued too that a
parking garage within the Loop would violate
the city's new Central Area Plan. Elated pro-
l^onents of ihe Civic Plaza plan began storming
Ciiy Hall.
At the height of this euphoria, in mid-June,
Mayor Daley annoinued that he too wanted to
sa\'e tlie Garrick. To this end, he said, he was
apj)ointing an ad hoc "citizens committee" made
up of cultural, business, and professional leaders.
Ominously, none of the hard-core Save-the-
Garrick men was included. And three of the
mayor's committee, including its chairman, Judge
Augustine Bowe, were members of the Archi-
tectural Landmarks Commission, which had
pronounced the Garrick "unfeasible for preserva-
tion."
VOICE OF THE BARROOMS
Til E ncAv committee, quite obviously, was a
trial balloon. The crusaders had made
enough noise to convince the innocent that Chi-
cago really wanted to save the Garrick. But the
mayor, who is nothing if not sensitive to his
constituency, knew his ciiy had \et to be heard
from. Most Garrick fans ^\■ere suburbanites or
spokesmen for the so-called "cultine strip," a
long, narrow residential area rimming Lake
Michigan. (.\ Ncxv Yorker cartoon once pictured
it as an elegant stage front behind Avhich
crouched the real, vast, and quite inelegant Clii-
cago.) The mayor's roots and the base of political
power are in the vast backyards and tenements of
the city. Their inhabitants so far had been mute.
Daley's balloon was designed to loose their voices.
Soon they spoke up. In letters-to-the-editors
columns, next to reverent appeals for beauty,
there appeared the voice of practicality. Instead
of "fixing up the Garrick," why not, it was sug-
gested, spend the money on orphans, on hos-
pitals, on rest homes, on care for the mentally
retarded? "There is no sense in wasting valuable
utility space in the Loop to preserve a monu-
ment," said one man. "Not one person in 50,000
knows what the Garrick is. The space had better
be used for business." One woman censured
culture lovers for wasting their efforts on the
Garrick when the really urgent need, as she saw
it, was for "saving our Art Institute. These so-
called abstract paintings are monstrosities." An-
other lady thought it would be "fitting and
practical" to replace the Garrick with "a small
sanctuary of flowers and trees, with a small
replica of the Garrick in the center."
The press too took sides. A Daily Neios edi-
torial wondered "if Garrick aficionados would
not settle for a handsome book of photographs,
drawings, and descriptions of the building, its
history, its pioneering, and distinctive features."
Such a book woidd make a "practicable provision
for architectural history . . . while costing con-
siderably less" than preserving the building it-
self. The Tribune's columnist. Herb Lyon,
sympathized with Balaban & Katz, whose permit
delay was said to be "costing a big weekly hunk
of dough with no end in sight. What price
idealism?" Only the Sun-Times still championed
the building, though one of its columnists, Irv
Kupcinet asked, "Why all the furor? . . . T'hell
with the Garrick, let's save the Chez Paree [a
recently closed night club]."
Alderman Thomas F. Fitzpatrick of the Irish
nineteenth ward took a look at the structure and
announced: "I came, I saw, and I'm for demolish-
ing." Veteran Alderman Paddy Baider of the
forty-eighth cried, "Tear it down! Tear it down
before it falls down!" (A Sun-Times editorial re-
joined: "Paddy may be an authority on the dura-
bility of a head on a glass of beer, biu we'll take
the word of other experts who maintain that the
building Sullivan designed will stand for two
hiuidred years.")
On July 9, Mayor Daley announced that the
Civic Plaza legislation— in the view of his com-
mittee—precluded diverting any funds to pur-
chase the Garrick. The committee was consider-
ing "several promising possibilities."
1)! i.iih of ornamentation on the C;inkk.
Despres branded the mayor's statement "mere
subterfuge." A small amendment would have in-
cluded the Garrick in the Civic Plaza project.
Nickel and Stauffer demanded to know what the
"promising possibilities" were. The committee
remained noncommittal.
Meanwhile, the firm of Balaban & Katz, having
evicted its tenants and closed its movie, was still
paying taxes with nothing coming in. It filed a
mandamus action to force the city to issue a
razing permit. In court, the mayor's committee
reported on a variety of schemes to inveigle non-
Chicagoans into rescuing the landmark. The
brightest hope seemed to lie in having the
Garrick designated a "blighted area," thus mak-
ing it eligible for rehabilitation with federal
slum-clearance funds.
Judge Donald McKinley deferred his verdict
for three weeks. In the interim, the City Coun-
cil's building committee held a hearing, listened
to both sides, and agreed to take the testimony
"under advisement." *Then on August 23, Judge
McKinley rendered an unexpectedly favorable
decision. He ruled that an owner's right to
destroy his property is not an absolute right
when the public interest is involved and that the
public interest involves aesthetic as well as
physical considerations. He refused to force a
razing permit but, noting Balaban Sc Katz's
complaints of hardship, warned the city it had
no right to saddle the firm with the costs of
preserving a landmark.
Balaban Sc Katz promptly took its troubles to a
higher court, and the architecture buffs— buoyed
up— set off a new flurry in the national press. It
proved, however, only the rally before the end.
The moment of truth came on November 23 be-
fore a three-judge panel in Appellate Court.
Balaban k Katz contended the city had "done
nothing to acquire the property or make any
other equitable arrangement" while withholding
a razing permit, thus making the firm "the
involuntary guardian of a shrine." Shrine-keep-
ing was said to be costing $500 a day in taxes
and loss of income. The city said it had been
unable to find a benefactor for the Garrick, but
hoped the Illinois legislature would take action
within a year. Nothing was said of the search for
federal money, presumably because one of the
richest real-estate parcels in the world could not
plausibly be called a slum area.
Balaban & Katz \\'on a dear-ciu victory. Noting
that the city had "no official action pending" for
preserving the Garrick, the court ruled tliat
"bare expcc lation of a fortuitous develojjmcni in
the remote futuic" was untenable grounds for
BY ELINOR RICHEY
39
denying a razing permit. It ordered the city to
produce at once.
On January 1, 1961, Mayor Daley annoimced
"with regret" that Chicago hatl been unable to
save the Garrick and the next week, almost a
year after Photograplier Nickel lainiched his
salvage campaign, the wreckers began their work.
Tlic morning Siin-Tirnes carried a cartoon, cap-
tioned "Alas, poor Garrick," featuring a wreck-
ing bell labeled "Chicago Indifference."
TOO DISTINGUISHED TO RENT
BlI T Chicago had not quite heard the last
of the Garrick. A wire-scrvi(e report of the
razing brought a flood of requests from museums
and educational institutions all over the world
for fragments of Garrick ornament. The city
instructed the wrecking firm to remove the orna-
ment separately. The firm said this extra work
would cost 550,000— which the city said it
couldn't pay. Judge Rowe sent out a sheaf of
telegrams to the institutions, asking thein to foot
the removal costs, but only Yale University re-
sponded with a cash donation. It ajijieared the
ornament ^\•oldd l)e lost. Then, in a gestme that
recalls the parable of Solomon and the quarrel-
ing mothers. Nickel came forward and said that
he and some architecture students ^sould help
remove the ornament, thus cutting costs. The
city finally agreed to contribute 510,000 toAvard
the bill. World Hook Encyclopedia gave 510,000,
and Balaban X: Katz .55.000. Nickel got out his
battered crash helmet and coveralls and reported
for work.
The re(]uests are now being filled, and Garrick
fragments soon will be on public display through-
out the country and in Europe. ^Vhile Chicago
museums still decline Sullivan ornament, Garrick
lo\ers will have at least a couple of local remind-
ers. The Second City night club purchased for
its front thicc of the handsome terra-cotta arches
with has relief sculpture that formerly graced the
lower Garrick facade. And the OAvner of the now
rising million-dollar Garrick Garage (the city
decided the garage wouldn't violate zoning, after
all) has requested first choice on salvaged speci-
mens for exterior decoration.
As for the architecture bufls, they have or-
ganized themselves into an unofficial "Chicago
Heritage Committee." Preparing for future land-
mark fights, they are peddling postcards to raise
expense money. Despres is pushing a city ordi-
nance requiring owners of landmark buildings to
gi\e six months' notice of intent to demolish. A
bill before the slate legislature projjoses allowing
cities to levy bonds to purchase landmark build-
ings and to grant tax relief to private owners.
Mayor Daley promisetl to expedite the bill, but
no action was taken at the last session.
The chairman of the Heritage Committee
anticipates that the next crisis will he over Frank
Lloyd ^Vriglu's Robie House. AV'ebb k Knapp
jmrchased it with the idea of donating it, after
their project was completed, to the city or an
appropriate historical institution. But neither
the city nor anyone else has offered to accept it
so the building may become an or])han again.
Meanwhile demolition rumors hover over Burn-
ham R: Root's Rookery Building. Adler k Sul-
livan's Stock Exchange Building, and over
famous Hull House, threatened by a mammoth
redeveloj^ment project.
The Heritage Committee has not given up try-
ing to teach Chicago to appreciate its archi-
tecture. Recently, they mged the owners of the
thirty-six remaining landmark buildings to dis-
l)lay their plaques conspicuously. Only six of
the j)la(|ues, they discovered, have been mounted
outside the buildings, as intended. Twelve have
been hung in various inteiior locations, while
the rest have been stored away (one awarded to
a city-owned building is in a vault in City Hall).
Five of the jjlacpies— awarded nearly two years
ago— haAC ne\er been called for. One owner
summed it up this way:
"That plaque woidd downgrade my building.
I'm trying to present it to the prospective tenants
as modern. I can't afford to put out a plaque
saying when it was built."
The theatre under demolition, spring, 1961.
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Harper's Magazine, December 1961
JAMES THURBER
THE FUTURE, IF ANY,
OF COMEDY
or, where do we non-go from here?
IC A L L E D the other afternoon on my old
friend, Graves Morehmd, the Anglo-American
literary critic— his mother was born in Ohio—
who lives alone in a fairy-tale cottage on the
Upson Downs, raising hell and peacocks, the
former only when the venerable gentleman be-
comes an angry old man about the state of litera-
ture or something else that is dwindling and
diminishing, such as human stature, hope, and
humor.
My unscientific friend does not believe that
human stature is measurable in terms of speed,
momentum, weightlessness, or distance from
earth, but is a matter of the development of the
human mind. After Gagarin became the Greatest
Man in the World, for a nation that does not
believe in the cult of personality or in careerism,
Moreland wrote me a letter in which he said:
"I am not interested in how long a bee can live
in a vacuum, or how far it can fly. A bee's place
is in the hive."
"I have come to talk with you about the
future of humor and comedy," I told him, at
which he started slightly, and then made us each
a stiff drink, with a trembling hand.
"I seem to remember," he said, "that in an
interview ten years ago you gave humor and
comedy five years to live. Did you go to their
funeral?"
"I was wrong," I admitted. "Comedy didn't
die, it just went crazy. It has identified itself
with the very tension and terror it once did so
much to alleviate. We now have not only what
has been called over here ilie romc-dy of menace
but we also have hgrror jokes, magazines known
as Horror Comics, and sick comedians. There
are even publications called Sick and Mad. The
Zeitgeist is not crazy as a loon or mad as a March
hare; it is manic as a man."
"I woke up this morning," Moreland said,
"paraphrasing Lewis Carroll. Do you want to
hear the paraphrase?"
"Can I bear it?" I asked, taking a final gulp
of my drink, and handing him the empty glass.
"Just barely," he said, and he repeated his
paraphrase:
"The time has come," the walrus said,
"To speak of manic things,
Of shots and shouts, and sealing dooms
Of commoners and kings."
Moreland fixed us each another drink, and
said, "For God's sake, tell me something truly
amusing."
"I'll try," I said, and sat for a moment think-
ing. "Oh yes, the other day I reread some of
Emerson's Eyiglish Traits, and there was an
anecdote about a group of English and Ameri-
cans visiting Germany, more than a hundred
years ago. In the railway station at Berlin, a
uniformed attendant was chanting, Toreigners
this way! Foreigners this way!' One woman— she
could have been either English or American-
went up to him and said, 'But you are the for-
eigners.' " I took a deep breath and an even
deeper swallow of my drink, and said, "I admit
that going back to Ralph Waldo Emerson for
humor is like going to a modern musical comedy
for music and comedy."
41
"What's the matter with the music?" Moreland
asked.
"It doesn't drown out the diah^gue," I ex-
plained.
"Let's talk about books," Moreland said. "I
am told that in America you have non-books by
non-writers, brought out by non-publishers for
non-readers. Is it all non-fiction?"
"There is non-fiction and non non-fiction,"
I said. "Speaking of nonism: the other day, in
a story about a sit-down demonstration, the Paris
Herald Tiihiitie wrote, 'The non-violence be-
came noisier.' And then Kichmann was (pioted
as saying, in non-English, that Hitler's plan to
exterminate the Jews was nonsense."
"If we cannot lell evil, honor, and insanity
from nonsense, what is ihe fuiuic of humor and
comedy?" Moreland asked, grindy.
"Cryptic," I said. "They rc(juire, for existence,
a brave spirit and a high heart, and where do
you find these? In our present era of Science and
Angst, the heail has been downgraded, to use
one of our p<)j)ular reti()gressi\e verbs."
"I know what you mean." .Moi eland sighed.
"Last year your Tennessee AViliiams told our
Dilys Powell, in a television program, that it is
the task of the playwright to throw light into
the dark corners of the human heart. Like al-
most everybody else, he confused the heart, both
as organ and as syndjol, with the disturbed
|)syche, the deranged glands, and the ium|n'
central nervous system. I'm not pleading for the
heart that leaps up when it beholds a raiid:)ow
in the sky, or for the heart that with rapture fills
and dances Avith the daffodils. The sentimeiual
pure heart of Galahad is gone with the knightly
years, but I still believe in the heart of the
George Meredith character that was not made of
the stufl that breaks."
"We no longer have Tom Moore's and Long-
fellow's 'heart for any fate,' either," I said.
"Moore and Longfellow didn't have the fate
As a carloonist. writer, and playwriiiht. James
Thitrher created hundreds of pieces of the briphtest
comedy of our time. Born in Ohio in 1891. he was
a newspaper reporter before joining the staff of
"The Neiv Yorker" in 1927. This new dialogue,
believed to be the last piece Mr. Thurber wrote,
appeared in London in ''The Times Literary Supple-
ment" this fall and is here published for the first
time in America. The drawings were chosen by
Mrs. Thurber from his books. While the article was
at press, Mr. Thurber was taken ill and he died on
November 2 in New York.
that faces us," Moreland said. "One day our
sj)e(ies promises co-existence, and the next day
it thieatens co-extinction." We sat for a while
diinking in silence.
'The heart," I said finally, "is now either in
the throat or the mouth or the stomach or the
shoes. When it was woi n in the breast, or even
on the sleeve, we at least knew where it was."
Theie was a long silence.
"You have visited England five times in the
past (juai ter-centiny, I believe," my host said.
"\\'liat has impressed you most on your present
visit?"
"1 would say depressed, not impressed," I told
him. "I should say it is the tinning of courts
of law into veritable theatres for sex dramas, in-
\()l\ ing clergymen and parishioners, psychiatrists
and patients. It is becoming lyirder and harder
to tell hnv courts and political arenas from the
modern theatre."
"Do you think we need a new Henry James to
re-exj)lore the Anglo-American scene?" he asked.
"Or j)erhaps a new Noel Coward?"
"But you must have heard it said that the
drawing-room disappeared forever with the
somnolent years of James and the antic heyday of
Coward. I myself hear it said constantly— in
drawing-rooms. In them, there is usually a group
of .Vnglo-.Americans with tragicf)mic problems,
Av'orthy of being exjilored cither in the novel or
in the play or in comedy and satire." I stood up
and began pacing.
"If you are ti ying to get us out of the brothel,
the dustbin, the kitchen sink, and the tawdry
living-room, you are probably wasting your
time," Moreland told me. "Too many of our
writers seem to be interested only in creatures
that craAvl out of the woodwork or from under
the rock."
"Furiouser and furiouser," I said. "I am wor-
ried about the current meanings of the word
'funny.' It now means ominous, as when one
THE FUTURE, IF ANY, OF COMEDY
42
speaks of a funny sound in the motor; disturbing,
as when one says that a friend is acting funny;
and frightening, as when a wife tells the police
that it is funny, but her husband hasn't been
home for two days and nights."
Moreland sat brooding for a full minute, dur-
ing which I made each of us a new drink. He
took his glass, clinked it against mine, and said,
"Toujours gai, what the hell!" borrowing a line
from Don Marquis' Mehitabel.
"Be careful of the word 'gay,' for it, too, has
undergone a change. It now means, in my coun-
try, homosexual," I said. "Oh, I forgot to say
that if one is taken to the funny house in the
funny wagon, he is removed to a mental institu-
tion in an ambulance. Recently, by the way, I
received a questionnaire in which I was asked
whether or not I was non-institutionalized."
MY HOST went over and stared out the
window at his peacocks; then he turned to
me. "Is it true that you believe the other animals
are saner than the human species?"
"Oh, that is demonstrable," I told him. "Do
you remember the woman in the French Alps
who was all alone with her sheep one day when
the sun darkened ominously? She told the sheep,
'The world is coming to an end!' And the sheep
said— all in unison, I have no doubt— 'Ba-a-a!'
The sound mockery of sheep is like the salubri-
ous horse laugh."
"That is only partly non-nonsense," he began.
"If you saw the drama called Rhinoceros," 1
said, "think of the effect it would have on an
audience of rhinos when the actor on stage sud-
denly begins turning into a rhinoceros. The
rhinos would panic, scream.ing 'Help!'— if that
can be screamed in their language."
"You think the Russians are getting ahead of
us in comedy?" Moreland demanded.
"Non-God, no," I said. "The political and
intellectual Left began fighting humor and
comedy years ago, because they fear things they
do not understand and cannot manage, such as
satire and irony, such as humor and comedy.
Nevertheless, like any other human being upon
whom the spotlight of the world plays continu-
ally, Khrushchev, the anti-personality cultist, has
become a comic actor, or thinks he has. In his
famous meeting with Nixon a couple of years
ago he seemed to believe that he was as funny
as Ed Wynn. But, like Caesar, he has only one
joke, so far as I can find out. It consists in saying,
'That would be sending the goat to look after
the cabbage.' Why in the name of his non-God
doesn't he vary it a bit?"
"Such as?" Moreland asked.
"Such as 'sending the cat to guard the mice/
or 'the falcon to protect the dove,' or most ter-
ribly sharp of all, 'the human being to save
humanity.' "
"You and I have fallen out of literature into
politics," Moreland observed.
"What a nasty fall was there!" I said.
Moreland went over to stare at his peacocks
again, and then came back and sat down, res-
tively. "The world that was once foot-loose and
fancy-free," he said, "has now become screw-loose
and frenzy-free. In our age of Science and Angst
it seems to me more brave to stay on Earth and
explore inner man than to fly far from the sphere
of our sorrow and explore outer space."
"The human ego being what it is," I put in,
"science fiction has always assumed that the
creatures on the planets of a thousand larger
solar systems than ours must look like gigantic
tube-nosed fruit bats. It seems to me that the
first human being to reach one of these planets
may well learn what it is to be a truly great and
noble species."
'^^1
BY JAMES THURBER
43
"Now we are leaving humor
and comedy behind again,"
Moreland protested.
"Not in the largest sense of
the words," I said. "The other
day Arnold Toynbee spoke
against the inveterate tendency
of our species to believe in the
uniqueness of its religions, its
ideologies, and its virtually every-
thing else. Why do we not realize
that no ideology believes so
much in itself as it disbelieves
in something else? Forty years
ago an English writer, W. L.
George, dealt with this subject
in Eddies of the Day, and said,
as an example, that 'Saint George for Merry
England' woidd not start a spirit half so quickly
as 'Strike frog-eating Frenchmen dead!' "
"There was also Gott strafe Angleterre," More-
land reminded me, "and Carthago delenda est, or
if you will, Driis strafe Cartilage. It isn't what
the ideologist believes in, but what he hates, that
puts the world in jeopardy. This is the force, in
our time and in every other time, that urges the
paranoiac and the manic-depressive to become
head of a state. Complete power not only cor-
rupts but it also attracts the mad. There is a
bitter satire for a future writer in that."
"Great satire has always been clearly written
and readily understandable," I said. "But we
now find writers obsessed by the nooks and
crannies of their ivory towers, and curiously de-
voted to the growing obscurity and complexity
of poetry and non-poetry. I wrote a few years
ago that one of the cardinal rules of writing is
that the reader should be able to get some idea
of what the story is about. If a poem, for ex-
ample, is understandable only to its author, then
Max Eastman's phrase, 'poets talking to them-
selves,' is not only accurate but alarming in a
time like ours."
Moreland didn't say anything, but he made us
another and stiffer drink.
"The Communists," he said, "may yet turn
literature into a phase of modern technology.
Some members of the Russian Society of Authors
will simply have to push a button, and out will
come a novel or a play. Incapable of revision—
that is, change, growth, and development, and
subject only to mechanistic favorable criticism,
obtained by pushing another button in another
machine. There is a satire in that for a future
writer, if there is going to be a future."
"Modern psychology and psychiatry have made
1^
us all afraid of ourselves," I said
abruptly. "Angst is spreading,
and with it mental ailments of
whose cause and cure, one au-
thority has recently said, we
know little or nothing. But the
terminology of psychiatry pro-
liferates to the point that almost
everybody now seems to think he
is schizophrenic, schizoid, or
schizo. I expect any day to see
the slang word 'skizzy' come into
common use. A psychologist in
America not long ago warned his
colleagues at a convention that
they were not so much arriving
at cures as inventing new terms
for the incurable. When neuro-psychotic became
psycho-neurotic, the verbiage was off to a flying
start, startling too many people. I heard of one
frightened woman who burst into her doctor's
office crying, 'I think I have got psychotherapy!'
The doctor was able to prove to her quite simply
that she did not have that."
"Are you moving toward some basic con-
clusion?" Moreland asked.
"I was coming to another subject for present
or future satire," I said. "That is the subject of
the Area Man. We are divided into literally
hundreds of Area Men, none of whom knows or
cares very much about men in other categories
of endeavor or thought. But we mumble along
in our multiple confusion. Every man is now an
island unto himself, interested in, even obsessed
by, his own preoccupation. For example, I was
agitated some twenty years ago when I discovered
the gulf of ignorance that existed between the
ophthalmologist and the psychologist. Each of
them is concerned only with his own end of the
optic nerve, which happens to join the eyeball
and the brain. I have found out that the eye
doctors and the mind doctors have developed a
great many jokes and anecdotes about one an-
other, without getting together and threshing
things out. A certain male adult began seeing
double, and he went to a psychiatrist, who de-
cided that the man's problem lay in his inability
to make up his mind as to which one of two girls
he was in love with. The distracted fellow then
called on a great eye man who cleared up the
condition with certain eye drops. I told this
story to our American humorist, S. J. Perelman,
and he said to me, 'The story is incomplete.
Which girl was he in love with?' "
"I know of two classes of Area Men that cer-
tain authorities are trying to interfuse, as the
44
THE FUTURE, IF ANY, Ut CUMEIJY
science fiction writers say," Moreland told me.
"Lord Hailsham was recently quoted as saying
that all good scientists are poets, and Alfred
North Whitehead made a strenuous attempt to
find the scientist in Tennyson, ^Vordsworth, and
Shelley. He even wrote, 'If Shelley had been born
a hundred years later, there would have been a
Newton among chemists.' "
"Shelley in the bells and grass, Shelley with an
apple halfway to his head," I murmured, but my
host went me a couple better.
"My heart leaps up when I behold a test tube
in the lab!" he cried. "And did you once see
Shelley plain? And was he stained with chemi-
cals?"
"If Shelley was a scientist, then I am a neuro-
surgeon," I said. "Any scientist knows that the
moth cannot desire the star, for the simple scien-
tific reason that the moth cannot see the star.
What the moth desires is the street lamp, the
candle flame, the light in the window. Too bad
W^hitehead did not rewrite the great lyric for the
sake of modern science."
"I weep for the man that wept for Adonais,"
Moreland sighed.
WE BOTH walked over to the window
and stared out at the peacocks again.
"Don't ask me how we are going to get out of
the present dehumanization of our species," I
told him, "because I don't know. I am glad to
say, to quote Poe, that it is neither beast nor
human, it is neither man nor woman, that wakes
me every morning at my quiet hotel in London.
It is a blackbird, who begins to sing as the chnk
strikes five. You see—"
But Moreland wanted to show me that he
could quote from the poets, too, and he did so:
The jiiglitinsalc has a lyre of -toUI.
The lark's is a ( hirion call.
The blackhird has but a boxwood (lute.
And I love him I)est of all.
We went back and sat down.
"There is, thank God," I said, "no such thing
as a deblackbirdi/ation."
"Would you like to see a world conference of
Area Men?" Moreland asked. "If so, do not ex-
pect me to attejul. There is enough Babel and
Bedlam ihe way it is, and an organization called
The Uinicd Notions would gel us nowhere even
faster than we are now going, whicii is 1,700
nnles a inituitc, I believe. Sudi a convention
might even lead \<> ihc !"irst Word W.nr
"Well, at any rate," I said, "you have suggested
good titles lor a sal lie, "Ihc United Notions' and
'The First Word War.' There are plenty of ideas
lying aroimd, but what we lack is wordmen, as
they are called in Hollywood, to write about
them."
"Let's get back to Angst for a moment," my
host said.
"On the contrary, let's get away from Angst
for good," I objected. "In a recent review of
what he called imscientific science fiction,
Kingsley Amis spoke of 'the threadbare conven-
tion of telepathy.' Now, I have studied and
practiced mental telepathy for sixty years, and
its existence is demonstrable. The present Angst,
the Zeitgeist of the moment, is quite simply, it
seems to me, the product of mass mental projec-
tion of gloom. I have traced its depressing effects
during the past two years. In that period I have
got a dismaying increase of letters from friends
and strangers of all ages, telling of the onset of
Angst. They use such expressions as anxiety,
nameless dread, and even heiilendes Elend, which
is German for the sobbing miseries. Too many
people have now got everything from the gallop-
ing jumps to the mumbling crumbles, and they
are contagious. I have no doubt that telepathy
has become a threadbare convention of science
fiction, but it is, alas, a monstrous human fact."
"Let's go and look at the peacocks again,"
Moreland sighed, and we both went over to the
window.
"I have a theory of my own about the spread
of Angst," Moreland said finally. "We talk too
much about this damnable dehuinanizaiion, and
the process shows up in too many of the dramas
and novels of our day. Love has become a four-
letter ^vord, and sex is no longer creative but
destructive. ^Ve are assured, by some authorities,
that the normal is a matter of mass behavior, but
the normal can never be synonymous with the
average, the majority, the customary, or the
habitual. The normal is that which functions in
accordance with its design, and in sex, and its
inversions and perversions, however popidar, we
seem to overlook the design of the morphology
and biology of the human being."
"You are over-sinTj)lifying," I told him, "but
it is refreshing in an age of over-complication."
"A long time ago we began calling this century
the Age of Anxiety and the Aspirin Age," More-
land went on. "Your late Piesident Roosevelt,
nearly thirty years ago, said that the only thing
to fear is fear itself, thus giving the psychiatrist
a new teini, phol)ophobia. I'lesident Eisenhower
spoke so often about the danger of fear and
hysleiia ihal he planted thcni in the conscious-
ness of his lelexisioii listeners. And then Time
BY JAMES THURBER
45
Magazine, in its issue of March 24th, devoted its
cover story to an article called 'The Anatomy of
Angst.' How can we mentally jam all this broad-
casting of gloom?"
"By rising above it," I said. "By the lifting of
the spirit, by what Dorothy Thompson called,
in her last book, 'The Courage to Be Happy.' It
takes guts to be happy, make no mistake about
it; and I don't mean slap-happy, or drink-happy,
or drug-happy."
"We are told that the balance of power in the
world, and its maintenance, are realistic, but the
realistic is not always the true," Moreland said.
"The greatest truth of our time is both simple
and awful— total war means annihilation, and
the Brink of War has become the Brink of Was."
"I wish I had said that," I murmured. "Power,
incidentally, also tends to make men stupid.
When Mikoyan visited the United States, he
asked more than one worker, 'Do you want war?'
They all said no, but bitter irony would have
been the proper weapon, if irony were not so
dangerous in this age of non-communication.
The answer to Mikoyan should have been, 'Yes,
of course. I should like to be killed, and have
my wife and children killed, and all my friends
and neighbors, and my city destroyed.' "
"We have come a long way from humor and
comedy this afternoon," Moreland sighed.
"On the contrary," I said, "we are just getting
around to it. Without satire no civilization can
be truly described or benefited. We could name
many names, from Voltaire to Swift, before we
ran into the modern morbid playwrights and sex
novelists, who are more interested in the sordid
corners of life than in the human heart."
"You mean the non-heart," Moreland said.
"Have you counted the recent books that deal
with the human condition, or predicament, or
tragedy?"
"Yes," I said, "and I even remember when we
wrote about the bright human spectacle, and the
human comedy. If there is no human comedy it
will be necessary to create one. How long can
the needle of the human gramophone stay in
the rut of Angst without wearing out and ending
in the repetition of a ghoulish gibbering?"
I GLANCED at my wristwatch and saw that
it was time to go. Moreland took me to the
door, and we shook hands. I had a final thought,
and said to my host: "I think we must learn to
brighten the human idiom, as well as to make it
communicable."
"I'll let you have the last word," he sighed,
finishing the whiskey in his glass.
"All right, then," I said. "Life at the moment
is a tale told in an idiom, full of imsoundness
and fury, signifying nonism. The other day I
read a love scene in a story that went like this:
'Am I beautiful?' she asked him. 'Terribly,' he
said. And then he asked her, 'Do you love me?'
'Horribly,' she said."
"Why don't you go home and write something
humorous?" Graves Moreland demanded. "Don't
you want to?"
"Frightfully," I told him, and I wandered
slowly o'er the lea, wondering if the modern
world had lost a great nuclear physicist when
Thomas Gray died in the wrong century.
0Sh °f B
»o^
Harper's Alairazine, December 1961
GALBRAITH IN INDIA
KUSUM NAIR
An amateur both at diplomacy and at piihlic
relations, he sometimes annoys the professionals
on his staff. But the Indians are beginning
to rate him as high as any of the four unusually
competent Ambassadors ivho preceded him.
ON T H E eighth of April lOOl, the plane
bringing John Kenneth Galbraith, the
new Ambassador-designate to New Delhi, arrived
an hour and ten minutes ahead of schedule. It
was symbolic perhaps of his inKf)ncealed en-
thusiasm to (ome to India. But it upset all
arrangements for his reception.
Professor Galbraith has been exceedingl) well
received. His fame as an economist and writer
had of course preceded him. He is widely read
in India and his views are respected and liked,
mainly because his liberal economic philosophy
is broadly in consonance with the dominant
Indian temper. The fact that he is unorihotlox,
and a pungent critic of traditional economic
thought and of certain aspects of the Ameri(an
ca|)italist system, adds tremendously to his jires-
tige and j)opularity in this country.
In fact, never before has an American Am-
bassador's aj)jK)intment aroused such keen inter-
est and expectations. It is so not only because
Galbiaith has the backing of a liberal and
dynamic Administration in W^ashington biu be-
cause of his own special backgroimd as a profes-
sional economist. He is known to ha\e a geiuiine
sym])alhy foi and an intimate understanding of
India's jiroblems. He has been to India twice
before in an advisory caj^acity to the Planning
C]ommission and is exjjccled to bring a gieater
sense of realism in American thinking about
Indian needs, and also jiossibly in India's own
thinking aboiu her development problems—
though, now that he speaks officially, it has to be
done more discreetly. His note to the Planning
Commission last year, for example, on the "Ra-
tionale of Indian Economic Organization" in
which he described the working of the ])idilic-
secior enterprises in India as "post-office social-
ism" became the subject of a lively discussion— it
is still pinsuing him— and added a new idiom to
ihc Indian economic terminology. Significantly,
his most important public engagemeiUs so far
have been three lectuies at the Univeisities of
Madras, CalciUta, and Bondiay on problems of
j)lanning, economic development, foreign aid,
and technical assistance, generally and with
sjjecilic leference to India.
47
Moreover, Galbraith came at a time when
Indo-American relations were extremely cordial.
They have come a long way since January 5,
1952, when the first general Technical Co-opera-
tion Agreement was signed between the two
countries. They can be said to be on a fairly
firm footing now, made firmer by the latest offer
of the U. S. government of more than a billion
dollars in aid to India's Third Five Year Plan.
In Galbraith's view, "The most significant and
deep-seated change in recent times is that we
accept India's nonaligncd position in interna-
tional affairs. We are not going to argue about
it; nor are we going to seek a change in it. It is
India's choice and we see that it contributes to
stability in this part of the world. When I was
here in 1956— it wasn't the best period in U. S.-
Indian relations— not very happy comments were
being made in American circles about the im-
morality of neutrals."
Similarly, there has been of late a greater
understanding and acceptance in the United
States of other concepts and policies to which
India is committed on its domestic front, such as
planning, socialism, and a very large public
sector in the national economy. Even previously,
under the Republicans in Eisenhower's time,
over 90 jier cent of American aid went to a wide
range of government projects in agriculture,
power and irrigation, industry, education, and
public health. But every time, "we looked over
our shoulder to see if anyone was watching,"
according to Galbraith. "Henceforth, we are not
going to be concerned with debates over ideology.
We recognize that India has to have a very sub-
stantial public sector and we will extend help
wherever we find it contributes most to rapid
development."
In the Indian press also, there is less baiting of
the U. S. on the racial question, though news
concerning it continues to be published promi-
nently. And Defense Minister Krishna Menon,
India's main spokesman at the UN, is increasingly
resorting to back-stage rather than center-stage
diplomacy. He speaks less now and— though still
unpredictable— is more moderate in his criti-
cism of American policies. Whether the new
Outstanding among India's very few women
journalists, Kusum Nair has traveled widely at
home and abroad. Her reports and articles appear
frequently in Indian, European, and American pub-
lications, and her book, '^Blossoms in the Dust," has
been published in England by Duckworth. Born in
Uttar Pradesh, she is a graduate of Nagpur Univer-
sity, is married, and has two children.
tone is a coincidence or a matter of policy, it is
difficult to say. One sore spot still is the problem
of U. S. military aid to Pakistan. President
Ayub's July visit to Washington and the Ameri-
can government's promise of "extension" of mili-
tary aid to his country, once again initiated a
most violent reaction in India at all levels, from
Prime Minister Nehru downwards.
Even so, there is no doubt that on both sides
there is more pragmatism now and less sniping
and mutual criticism.
BOWLES TO ALLEN
TO COOPER TO BUNKER
THIS achievement of a better understand-
ing between the U. S. and India has not
been a sudden phenomenon. It has been de-
veloping gradually, and more especially over the
last four years or so. President Kennedy has
made a deeply favorable impression in India,
especially by his eloquence, freshness of ap-
proach, and emphasis on the need for economic
development and social reform in the backward
countries. But it has not brought about any
spectacular shift in Indo-American relations.
"Undoubtedly, our friendship has been further
emphasized under the new Administration," the
Indian Prime Minister told me five months after
Kennedy had been sworn into office. "But our
relations with the United States have been good
over the past several years now, whatever the
Administration in Washington. We have had a
good set of Ambassadors."
Which is true. The first in the line to bring
about a marked change in what was at the time a
highly critical state of Indian opinion was
Chester Bowles, who came as Ambassador in
October 1951. His success was achieved largely
by personal charm and good public relations, as
for example, by being flatteringly appreciative of
everything Indian, by acting like a true democrat,
choosing to live in a modest house (it is still the
official residence of the American Ambassador),
mixing freely with the more common people
normally outside the ambassadorial circle, and
sending his children to an Indian rather than an
American school, and riding a bicycle instead of
in a Cadillac.
Bowles was followed by George V. Allen, a
career diplomat, who was succeeded by Sherman
Cooper, a Republican ex-Senator from Kentucky.
Both men were highly respected, but they held
office for only about a year each and were greatly
handicapped generally by the foreign policy of
John Foster Dulles, which was extremely un-
48
GALBRAITH IN INDIA
pojuilar in India, and specifically by the mutual-
defense pact which was signed by the United
States government with Pakistan in 1954. This
agreement, which promised massive arms aid to
Pakistan at a time when Indo-Pakistan relations
Avere highly strained and the two armies were
facing each other belligerently in Kashmir, let
loose a deluge of the most bitter anti-American
sentiment in India.
Cooper was succeeded in 1957 by Ellsworth
Bunker, whom Galbraith has now replaced.
Bunker made an outstanding impression though
he represented a Republican regime and was by
nature a very quiet, reserved, yet friendly, kind
of diplomat. He had none of the flamboyance
of Chester Bowles. But he worked tirelessly to
improve Indo-American relations and was indeed
very effective.
Half of U. S. aid to India over the past decade
—which totaled .S.8,7r)5 million as up to March
1961— \\as made available during Bunker's term.
The largest food agreement yet signed with any
country, giving India sixteen million tons of
wheat and one million tons of rice, was also
negotiated in Bunker's time, in May 19r)0. It is
difficult to find an Indian who knew Bunker and
does not respect and admire him.
'^AMERICA SHOULD HAVE . . . "
BUT actually, neither India nor the United
States has yet abandoned its stand or frame-
work of thinking on any basic issue. Nor would
it be true to say that now there is any participa-
tion by India and the United States in a common
ideological mission or battle against a common
danger.
Though admittedly, there is greater flexibility
and a more liberal attitude in the approach of
the new .American .Administration, it continues
to think and act predominantly in the context of
international communism and its threat to world
peace and democracy. On the other hand, the
Indian mind for the present has one motivation,
amounting similarly almost to an obsession,
which is likely to continue, unless international
developments ccmipel a change, for at least a
couple of decades or more. It is a concern with
internal economic development, social readjust-
mctu and reform, and national integration. Every
other Indian policy, of peace, co-existence, non-
alignment and so on, flows fr«mi this (enter.
It is interesting to observe, however, that since
1952 neither ideologicil nor policy diderences in
the internatif)nal s|)liere have pievciucd the
steady growth f»f U. S. econoinic as^islance to
India, though they did act as constant irritants.
This growth underlines the true character of
Indo-.American relationship: first, that it is con-
fined mainly to the sphere of economic and
technical co-operation; and secondly, that it
is almost entirely at government-to-government
level. There has been of late an increasing
interest in industrial collaboration in the private
sector. The United States is now the jirincipal
investing country. Even so, the floAv of private
capital is negligible and is the direct concern of
only a very small though influential section of
the community.
The vast midtitude of the common masses of
India on the other hand have no relationship
whate\er with the United States of .America or
its i^eople. and often lack a clear understanding
or even an awareness of the close connections be-
tween the two countries— despite occasional visit-
ing \^IPs like Vice Picsident Lyndon Johnson
shaking hands vigorously with a few people on
the roadside or in a village. .An overwhelming
majority of the Indian population lies way be-
yond the reach of the ITnited States Information
Services or of the .American consular staff, which
is largely confined, as the American Vice Presi-
dent is reported to have suspected, to the "cock-
tail circle," which is formidable but extremely
narrow. For various reasons the U. S. technical
personnel do not fare very much better.
• Thus, for example, Ratn Prasad is a Harijan,
by profession a "sweeper." He cleans the floor
and toilets in a private home in New Delhi. He
is young, about twenty-one years old, very dark,
handsome, with a flashing smile that comes easily.
He is illiterate but intelligent. His home is in a
village called Tajpur, some forty miles from
Delhi, but he is landless. He came to work in
the capital some three years ago.
"What do you know of .America?" I ask him.
"Nothing."
"Do you know that America is a very rich
coimtry?"
"No I don't. But someone told me tliat there
are no pocjr in America."
"Do you kncnv that .America is giving a lot of
aid to India for her Five Year Plans?"
"No. I don't."
In Delhi he has seen .Americans but never
s|)oken to any. He knows nothing of President
Kennedy and his Administration or of the state
of Indo-Anierican relations before or since.
• Miiljl I'dhir is from the \illage, [or.i\asan,
in Surat dislricl in (iajeral in Western India, llc
BY KUSUM NAIR
49
is just literate, alert, aware of the world around
him, a man with forthright views. He owns six
and a half acres of land in his village but also
works as a domestic servant in New Delhi to
supplement his income.
"What do you think of our relations with the
United States?" I ask him.
"I think they are good. But they could have
been better. They are not as good as they could
be."
"Why?"
"Because, when China attacked our borders,
America remained silent. She refused to take
sides and condemn China."
"But we did not ask for America's help."
"So what? America should have taken a clear
stand on the issue. Why did she not do so?"
"You know that America is giving us a lot of
economic assistance? Why do you think she is
doing that?" I ask.
"Well, she has to," is the reply, "because, first,
there are so many Americans here. No other
country has so many of its people in India. They
are spread all over. They have to be provided
with jobs. Secondly, Americans would like to
increase their trade with us. Besides, they try to
help the poor by running schools and hospitals.
In Bulsar and Nadiad [in Gujerat, his home
state], there are American hospitals and they
treat a lot of patients from the surrounding
villages."
1 explain to him that these schools and hos-
pitals he is referring to have been run by Ameri-
can Christian missions ever since British times
and have nothing to do with the economic assist-
ance now being provided at governmental level.
But he does not know of any other aid program
or how it is utilized and to what purpose. He has
heard of President Kennedy but knows of no
material change having been brought about by
him or by his Administration in relation to India
or the rest of the world. He, however, vaguely
expects America to help the poorer countries in
their economic development.
• Thirty-seyen-year-old Kartar Singh is a Sikh
from the Punj^B^a college graduate. He is work-
ing as a senior clerk in the government of India.
At present he is drawing a salary of about $52 a
month with a yearly increment of a dollar and a
half. He enjoys free medical facilities and has
cheap government accommodation in a city
where rents are probably the highest in the
world. Kartar Singh also owns eleven acres of
land in his village, but, being educated, would
not consider working the land himself. He would
prefer a white-collar job, no matter how lowly
paid.
What does he think of Indo-American rela-
tions?
"Well," he speaks with some hesitation, "you
have to admit that every time it is the Soviet
Union which has come to our rescue by exercis-
ing the veto in the United Nations over the
BURN IT! by Robert Graves
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Not intermittently but night and day
Need but enhance your satisfaction
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And salvage no small beauties or half-lines.
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Fetch the book here
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Grateful at least that, having gone so far,
You still know what truth is and where you are.
With better things to say
In your own bold, unmarketable way.
© 1960, Co-Productions Roturman, S. A.
50 GALBRAITH IN INDIA
Kashmir issue. America and the other West Eu-
ropean powers seldom vote with us on any major
international problem."
"What do you think of the massive economic
aid that America is giving us?"
"Oh that," and now he warms up to the sub-
ject. "AVell. poor people like us never even know
how much comes and where it goes. It comes to
the government. How it is spent and where, we
never know. I, and most of my colleagues, be-
lieve that it goes largely to fill the pockets of the
rich and the politicians in power. They build a
dam maybe, but millions are wasted and spent
even before the dam is completed. The country
gets little or no benefit from it. Besides, hoAv is it
ever going to be paid back?"
"Why do you think America gives us so much
aid?"
"It is out of pure self-interest— not from any
altruism for us. It is mainly and primarily to
fight communism. If they give us so much aid,
they feel they are making us strf)ng to fight com-
munism and Russia, so that we would be on their
side if and when there is a showdown. That is
their real motive."
"But when Americans say they are helping vou
to preserve democracy and a free way of life,
don't you agree with them? Don't you yourself
want to preserve democracy in this country?"
This line of argument, however, strikes no
response in him because he does not care for
democracy "unless poor people like me— I talk
not only for myself but for hundreds of thou-
sands who are even worse off than me— can be
benefited. It has no meaning for us. Two Five
Year Plans have gone by, but what have we got
out of them?"
He describes himself as poor, but would be
technically classed in the lower-middle-class in-
come bracket.
WORKS, NOT GADGETS
THESE thrce-7?^/w Prasad, Mulji Fakir,
and Kartnr S//?£r//— represent different strata
of Indian nonpoliti(al opinion, though thev en-
joy a distinct advantage by living in Delhi. Their
coimterparis in villages and the smaller towns
would be very much less informed.
These common people, however, do not count
very miuh in the normal sense of the word, be-
cause the vocal, inliuciitial, and ruling group in
India still consists largely of a small iniiioi iiv of
the urban elite drawn mainly from the middle
and upper classes. Its nu inbeis aie well inloiuied
and usually have (hjsc social relations or busi-
ness contacts with Americans. Many or tnem
have been to the United States. Except for a
small self-proclaimed "left" and "right" lobby—
whose standing is low in public estimation— in-
dividuals, politicians, and members of the press
in this urban elite also tend to form their atti-
tudes toward America on the basis of specific
issues. They do not adopt a blanket approach
of "for" or "against." Just as there is no wholly
pro-American group of any significance in India,
so there is no wholly anti-American body of
sentiment either, except in Communist circles.
The phenomenon is inevitable, perhaps, and is
not attributable simply to the Indian govern-
ment's policy of nonalignment. Another reason
for it could be that there is not, and can never
be, a deeper emotional kinship between the two
peoples, rooted in a common ethnic, cidtural, or
historical heritage such as binds the American
and the 'West European communities, or the
Arab States, for example. In this respect, India's
relations with practically every other country in
the world, incliuling the nonaligned nations, run
more or less on the same pattern.
Under the circumstances, it is difficult to en-
visage anv revolutionary change in the basic
relationship between America and India, Avhich,
as already stated, is that of donor to recipient and
is confined predominantly to economic and tech-
nical co-operation at governmental level. Here
Galbraith is on his own grounds and in fact, as
he admitted at his first press conference, his
presence in Ncav Delhi is not unrelated to it.
Apart from strengthening the economic ties, he
can only aspire to extend somewhat the area of
mutual understanding, which Galbraith plans to
do bv emphasizing cidtural programs.
He has little faith in propaganda, and believes
that those who are subject to persuasion are on
the Avhole not worth persuading. He wants the
U. S. Information Services to cease to be an
instrument of Cold War and become one of
education in the best sense, simply to dis]:)lay the
cidtural resources of his countiy. "^\'e have an
excellent theatre, jazz, dance, for example."
A major problem, however, is that only a small
section of the westernized upper-class Indians,
mostly the "cocktail circle" again, really under-
stands or appreciates \Vcsiern music, dance, or
theatre, though Hollywood films command larger
audiences. This circle cannot be expected to
bioaden Aery much more, at least in the im-
nicdiaie future, bc(ause of differences in taste
and I he language difficulty.
Kvcn so, there is great scope for imjirovemcnt
i'l t'lc intei pi elation of the American way of life
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BY KUSUM NAIR
53
to India. Generally speaking, the cultural image
of an American in the mind of the average
educated Indian is unsavory and not always ac-
cinate. It is identified predominantly with brash
materialism, fabulous luxury, softness; bikinis,
night clubs, television sets, giant automobiles,
machines, and gadgets; quantities of litjuor and
fro/en and canned foods of every kind. There is
greater need, perhajis, to convey to the Indian
people the underlying motivations and basic
economic attitudes of the Americans— as toward
woik, for example— which have been responsible
for thcii- high produ(li\e eHiciency. The display
of end-j)roducls by themselves often irritates and
proNokes cynicism instead of inspiring similar
effort.
Galbiaith |)lans to invite to India a greater
number of literary people, economists, social
scientists, and intellectuals in other fields,
so that they will understand India better and
their Indian counterparts will have an oppor-
tunity to see a broader perspective of American
intellectual life and to take |)ait in discussing
some of the li\'e toj)ics in the United States. He
hopes the selection of the invitees will be more
varied and "not (juite so respectable" as in the
past. He is also anxious to bring the latest im-
portant American publications to this country
as soon as they are published. The Ford Founda-
tion has already made an initial grant of $15,000
for the purpose. Normally, American books do
not reach Indian bookstores for several months
after they are out and then they are too costly
for most private purses, especially of those who
most want to read them.
This is an area in which interest is avid in
India and is growing. American technology and
scholarship command more respect now in this
coiuitry than they did even ten years ago and
Harvard competes for equal honors with Oxford
and Cambridge— the traditional mecca of Indian
intellectuals. American universities receive more
Indian students today than any other foreign
group despite the exchange difficulties- and de-
spite the fact that the students' mothers are
generally suspicious and distrustful of American
standards of sexual morality.
Moreover, India's entire system of education,
from the primary to the university level, is being
reviewed currently with a view not only to
extend it to embrace larger numbers, but to
modernize it and to make it more efficient. With
rapid industrialization, there is need for a far
greater emphasis on scientific education and tech-
nology than the existing curriculinii and facilities
permit. In this field again Galbraith's contribu-
tion could have— in the long run and in some
respects— a gieaier impact on the country's de-
velopment than the economic-aid program. For
in India, much more than in the United States,
the ultimate test will be, as the Professor states
in one of his books, less the ellectiveness of
material investment than the ellectiveness of in-
vestment in man.
■'sit down , sir"
THERE are, however, limitations to what
an Ambassador can hope to achieve, some
of them inherent in the job. Thus one of the
major tasks of an cmissar) is to convey and
interpret his own government's policies on a
world-wide plane. If some of these are rejected
or basically impopular with the local government
and jjublic ojjinion, there is little the Ambassador
can do about it excejJt to plead for tolerance and
a better understanding of the luiderlying inten-
tions. The first storm of this character Galbraith
had to face almost immediately on arrival was
on Cuba and the most recent has been on the
(juestion of military aid to Pakistan.
Moreover, not only is Galbraith almost totally
inexperienced in political dijjlomacy but in his
dealings with the Indian authorities on this
plane he often finds himself having to talk ex-
pertly on subjects he feels he does not know
enough about, as, for example, Laos. That he
takes the most direct route to accjuaint himself,
however, is indicated by the fact that in July he
decided to fly all the way to Geneva to find out.
But Galbraith is not a natural diplomat in the
conventional sense. He is too transparent and
more of a pure intellectual and a specialist in
one particular subject than any of his j^rcdeces-
sors or than most Ambassadors. This cjuality
naturally imparts some imbalance both to his
personality and to his performance in his mani-
fold duties. Not all of them interest him equally
and some of them bore him tremendously, es-
pecially the rituals of protocc:>l. They nc:)t only
make a fantastic demand on an Ambassador's
time but he visibly chafes under the burden of
their obvious futility.
Galbraith's ability to communicate effectively
at the top official levels— he has established ex-
cellent relations with Prime Minister Nehru—
cannot be doubted and friends know him to be
warm and generous, but he is too subtle to be
at ease in a crowd or to put comparative strangers
at ease, to indulge in small talk and phony
j)latitudes, and to suffer tools with at least a
semblance of delight. Then add his lanky six
54
GALBRAITH IN INDIA
feet eight inches of physical height in a country
where the average man is much shorter than in
the U. S. Automatically, the "differential alti-
tude" places him and his audience at a mutual
disadvantage. At a press conference in Calcutta
recently, the first suggestion from the corres-
pondents was, "Why don't you sit down, sir?"
Again, though he affirms that he has noticed a
tendency for his language to become more dis-
creet, he still is and can be bluntly outspoken
if the occasion so demands. The wry humor— the
love for the trenchant phrase with the typical
Galbraith twist— also persists and is liable some-
times not to be understood even by the more
sophisticated. It is amusing but it can also be
devastating and indeed at times creates odd
reactions.
Despite his lack of professional skill generally
at mass j)ub]ic relations, however, the Professor
has been doing plenty of public relations both in
private and in public. He not only wants but
expects to be accepted. His contacts with the
press, off and on the record, have been close. He
has gone out of his way to cultivate the Indian
intellectuals, artists, students, and professionals.
There has been a major shift in their favor in
the guest list at the Ambassador's house. For-
merly it was dominated as a rule by the top busi-
ness and official circles— the typical Rotary Club
crowd. Galbraith has been traveling almost con-
stantly in the months he has been here, and if
he continues at this pace, he probably will be
the most mobile Ambassador India has known.
He certainly is the most vocal, though consider-
ing his professorial background he is a surpris-
ingly poor speaker, and extremely poor when he
speaks extempore.
In fact, if any aspect of his work has suffered,
it is the organizational, within his own mission,
because he has barely had the time, even were he
so inclined, to come to grips with administrative
problems and be closely acquainted with his
subordinates. But he is not so inclined. He is
clearly not an organization man. Unlike his
predecessor, he is generally late to reach his office
because he prefers to work at home. He does not
conceal his dislike for staff meetings, which used
to be a regular routine. He has made it known
that he gets more by reading than by hearing. The
general procedure now, therefore, is to write
memos on every subject requiring his decision.
He is quick in giving his decision and this saves
considerably on everybody's time— except that his
handwriting often stumps even his secretary. But
this procedure also means that the staff gets less
opportunity to meet and understand liini, and to
participate in his thinking. How well, therefore,
the administration of the Embassy in New Delhi
and of its several specialized missions will work
during Galbraith's term and whether they will
pidl their weight with him and measure up to his
personal performance may well depend largely
on the drive and efficiency of his deputies.
In common, perhaps, with the other top ap-
pointees of the Kennedy Administration, Am-
bassador Galbraith also displays an enormous
vitality and capacity for hard work— "the new
zeal," as it is described in American circles here.
He is quick, tense, inclined to be both impetuous
and impatient with problems, driving himself
almost to punishing point, as if time were run-
ning out. To those close to him he seems to be
in a great hurry to get everywhere and do fifty
different things at the same time. To the hard-
boiled professional, the pace seems somewhat
pointless and results inevitably in an unnecessary
dispersal of energy.
NO AFFLUENCE HERE
PERHAPS the most interesting "if" of
Galbraith's term of office in India is whether
he will leave a more memorable imprint on this
coimtry or the country on him. If I were to
venture a guess, the probability is that it will be
the latter, though undoubtedly Galbraith will be
remembered in India for a long time to come.
Thus the foundation grant Professor Gal-
braith received in 1955 was meant originally for
a study on why people are poor. He tried, but
failed to make much headway, and wrote instead
on the affluent society he knows so well. Now is
his chance, deliberately chosen, to study at first
hand not only a poor society, but also its at-
tempts to escape from poverty and reach the
stage of self-sustaining growth by democratic
means, described by him as the world's most
challenging effort. Whatever contribution he
may make personally toward this effort, however,
will always be circumscribed by and be a mere
part of a larger policy of his own government
which he will doubtless influence to some extent
but not personally direct or control.
Galbraith's observations and the conclusions
he reaches on the subject during his stay in
India, therefore, may well make a far more
lasting and useful contribution to his thinking
on the general theory of economic growth and
development than he, or for that matter any
Ambassador, however brilliant, can ever pos-
sibly hope to make on the affairs of any foreign
country.
Harper's Magazine, December 1961
X
Hi
'"C^r
For sheer pleasure.., \
a book to read, /
to own, to give
y
OUT of the p^ges of Harper's Magazine comes this
joyful collection of the witty, the informal, the
entertaining. The stories, articles and verse are, as readers
of Harper's would expect, wonderfully varied. But there
is one characteristic all share: each is fresh, funny and
enormously readable.
In time, these writers range from Mark Twain to Jean
Kerr. The subjects they cover are as diverse as Hedda
Hopper's TV spectacular, a baby seal that doesn't know
how to swim, the small kingdom of Lundy off the British
coast, snobs, children and the bibulous Fon of Bafut.
Some are old favorites, others (for many readers) new
delights. Sheer pleasure is what they add up to. And
isn't sheer pleasure what you would like to give yourself
. . . and, certainly at Christmas, your friends and favorite
relations? Humor from Harper's was made to order for
just that purpose.
A sampling of
the many pleasures
MARK TWAIN
Extracts from Adam's Diary
CLARENCE DAY
Mv Father and His Pastors
E.B.WHITE
Selections from One Man's Meat
JAMES THURBER
The Darlings at the Top of the Stairs
WILLIAM H. WHYTE, Jr.
You, Too, Can Write the Casual Style
GYPSY ROSE LEE
Stranded in Kansas City, or
a Fate Worse Than Vaudeville
C. NORTHCOTE PARKINSON
How to Tell When You Are Obsolete
LEO ROSTEN
Mr. K*A*P*L*A*N and the Glorious Pest
BERNARD DeVOTO
Mv Career as a Lawbreaker
STEPHEN LEACOCK
Mv Discovery of England
SHIRLEY JACKSON
The Third Baby's the Easiest
JOHN UPDIKE
A Wooden Darning Egg
PHYLLIS McGINLEY
A Quartet of Elders
A. B. GUTHRIE, Jr.
Nothing Difficult About a Cow
RUSSELL LYNES
The New Snobbism
ROALD DAHL
Madame Rosette
JEAN KERR
Aunt Jean's Marshmallow Fudge Diet
At all bookstores, or use the coupon for
10 DAYS' FREE EXAMINATION
HARPER & BROTHERS, 51 East 33rd St., New York 16, N. Y.
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Humor from Harper's for 10 days' free examination
at the special gift price* of $4.50 per copy. Within
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ARTHUR C. CLARKE
THE USES
OF THE MOON
Putting a colony there may he practical,
cold-cash sense — which has nothing to do with
propaganda or military operations.
TH E two greatest nations in the world have
now given notice that they will land men
on the Moon within the next decade. This will
be one of the central facts of political life in the
years to come; indeed, it may soon dominate
human affairs even more dramatically than was
suggested in the novel Advise and Consent. It is
essential, therefore, that we understand the im-
portance of the Moon in our future; if we do
not, we will be going there for the wrong reasons,
and will not know what to do when we arrive.
Many people imagine that the whole project of
lunar exploration is merely a race with the Rus-
sians—a contest in conspicuous consumption of
brains and material, designed to impress the re-
mainder of mankind. No one can deny the strong
element of competition and national prestige in-
volved, but in the long run, this will be the least
important aspect of the matter. If the race to
the Moon were nothing more than a race, it
would make good sense to let the Russians bank-
rupt themselves in the strain of winning it, in the
calm confidence that their efforts would collapse
in recriminations and purges sometime during
the 1970s.
There are some shortsighted people (including
a few elderly, but unfortunately still influential,
scientists) who would adopt just such a policy.
Why spend tens of billions of dollars, they ask,
to land a few men on a barren, airless lump of
rock, nothing more than a cosmic slag heap,
baked by the Sun during the daytime and frozen
to subarctic temperatures in the long night? The
pol-.n regions ol ihis Earth are fir more hospi-
table; indeed, the deep oceans could probably be
exploited and even colonized for a fraction of the
sum needed to conquer the Moon.
All this is true; it is also totally irrelevant. The
Moon is a barren, airless wasteland, blasted by
intolerable radiations. Yet a century from now it
may be an asset more valuable than the wheat
fields of Kansas or the oil wells of Oklahoma.
And an asset in terms of actual hard cash— not
the vast imponderables of adventure, romance,
artistic inspiration, and scientific knowledge.
Though, ultimately, these are the only things of
real value, they can never be measured. The
conquest of the Moon, however, can be justified
to the cost accountants, not only to the scientists
and the poets.
Let me first demolish, with considerable pleas-
ure, one common argument for going to the
Moon— the military one. Some ballistic generals
have maintained that the Moon is "high ground"
that could be used for reconnaissance and bom-
bardment of the Earth. Though I hesitate to say
that this is complete nonsense, it is so near to it
as to make very little practical difference.
You cannot hope to see as much from 250,000
miles away as from a TV-satellite just above the
atmosphere, and the use of the Moon as a launch-
ing site makes even less sense. For the effort
required to set up one lunar military base with
all its supporting facilities, at least a hundred
times as many bases coidd be established on
Earth. It is also far easier to intercept a missile
coming from the Moon— taking many hours for
the trip in full view of telescopes and radar—
than one sneaking round the curve of the Earth
in twenty minutes. Only if, which Heaven for-
bid, we extend our present tribal conflicts to the
other planets will the Moon become of military
importance.
Before we discuss the civilized uses of our one
natural satellite, let us summarize the main facts
about it. They may be set down quite briefly:
Area: The Moon's radius is just over a thousand
miles— one quarter of the Earth's. Thus its
area is one-sixteenth of our planet's— more than
that of Africa, and almost as much as that of
both the Americas combined. Such a territory
Avill take many years (and many lives) to explore
in detail.
Material: The amount of material in the Moon
(if vou would like it in tons) comes to
75n.0()0.()()0.000.000.0()0.000.000. This is millions
of millions times more than all the coal, iron,
minerals, and ores that man has shifted in the
^\•h()lc of history. Tt is not enough mass, however,
to orixe I he Afoon much of a gravitational pull;
as e\cr\oiie no\\- knows, a visitor to the Moon
has only ,i fraction (actually one-sixth) of his ter-
rcstiial Avei'rht.
Grax'ity: This low gravity has several conse-
queiucs. almost all of them good. The most im-
portant is that the Moon has been unable to
retain an aimosphcic; if it ever had one. it long
ago escaped from the Moon's feeble clutch and
leaked off into space. For all practical purposes,
therefore, the limar surface is in a perfect
vacuum. (This is an advantage? Yes: we'll see
A\h\ in a moment.)
Atmosfthere: Because there is no atmosphere to
weaken the Sim's ravs or to act as a reservoir of
heat at night, the Moon is a world of very great
tenijjerature extremes. On oiu- Earth, in any one
sfjot, the thermometer seldom ranges over as
much as a hundred degrees even during the
course of a year. Though the temperatine can
exceed 100 degrees in the tropics, and drop to
125 beloxc zero in the Antarctic, these figures are
quite exceptional. Biu every point on the Moon
undergoes twice this range dining the lunar day;
indeed, an explorer could encounter such changes
within seconds, merely by stepping from sunlight
into shadow. This obviously presents problems,
but the very absence of atmosphere which causes
such extremes also makes it easy to deal with
them— for a vacuum is one of the best heat in-
sulators, a fact familiar to anyone who has ever
taken hot drinks on a picnic.
Weather: No air means no weather. It is hard
An expert skin diver and author of more than
tiventy books about the exploration of space, earth,
and ocean — both scientific and science fiction —
Arthur Clarke lives in Ceylon and lectures often in
the U. S. He is a felloiv of the Royal Astronomical
Society and ivas chairman of the British Inter-
planetary Society. His books include "The Making
of a Moon" and "Indian Ocean Adventure" (written
with Mike Wilson).
57
for us. accustomed to wind and rain, cloud and
fog, hail and snow, to imagine the complete
absence of all these things. None of the meteor-
ological variations which make life interesting,
unpredictable, and occasionally impossible on
the surface of this planet takes place on the
Moon; the only change there is the utterly un-
varying cycle of day and night. Such a situation
may be monotonous— but it simplifies to an im-
believable extent the problems facing architects,
engineers, explorers, and indeed everyone who
will ever conduct operations of any kind f^n the
Moon.
Day: The Moon turns rather slowly on its axis,
so that its day (and its night) are almost thirty
times longer than ours. As a result, the sharp-
edged frontier between night and day, which
moves at a thousand miles an hour on the Earth's
equator, has a maximum speed of less than ten
miles an hour on the Moon. In high lunar
latitudes, a walking man could keep in perpetual
daylight with little exertion. .\nd because the
Moon turns on its axis in the same time as it re-
volves around the Earth, it always keeps the same
hemisphere tinned toward us. Until the advent
of Lunik III, this Avas extremely frustrating to
astronomers; in another generation, as we shall
see, they will be very thankful for it.
COLONISTS AT WORK
SO MUCH for the main facts; now for a
few assumptions which most people would
accept as reasonable in 1961, though they would
have laughed at them before 1957.
The first is that suitably protected men can
work and carry out engineering operations on the
face of the Moon, either directly or by remote
control through robots.
The second is that the Moon consists of the
same elements as the Earth, though doubtless in
different proportions and combinations. Most
of our familiar minerals will be missing: there
Avill be no coal or limestone, since these are the
products of life. But there will be carbon and
hydrogen and oxygen and calcium in other forms,
and we can evolve a technology to extract them
from whatever sources are available. It is even
possible that there may be large quantities of
free (though frozen) water not too far below the
Moon's surface; if this is the case, one of the chief
problems of the lunar colonists will be solved.
In any event— without going into details of
mining, ore processing, and chemical engineering
—it will be possible to obtain all the materials
needed for maintaining life. The first pioneers
58
THE USES OF THE MOON
ivill be content with mere survival, but at a later
stage they will build up a self-supporting in-
dustry based almost entirely on lunar resources.
Only instruments, specialized equipment, and
men will come from Earth; the Moon will supply
all the rest-ultimately, of course, even the men.*
There have been many studies and books on
the subject of lunar colonization (I have written
one myself), and all those who have been into
the subject are agreed on the general picture,
though the details vary. It may take as little as
fifty years (the interval between the Wright bi-
plane and the B-52) to establish a viable lunar
colony; it may take a hundred. But if we wish,
it can be done; on the Moon, to borrow the
words of William Faulkner's Nobel Prize speech,
man will not merely survive— he will prevail.
Now for the reasons why it is worth the ex-
pense, risk, and difficulty of prevailing on the
inhospitable Moon. They are implicit in the
question: what can the Moon offer that we can-
not find on Earth?
One immediate but paradoxical answer is
Nothing— millions of cubic miles of it. Many of
the key industries in the modern world are based
on vacuum techniques; electric lighting and its
offspring, radio and electronics, could never have
begun without the vacuum tube, and the inven-
tion of the transistor has done little to diminish
its importance. (The initial steps of transistor
manufacture have themselves to be carried out in
vacuum.) A great many metallurgical and
chemical processes and key stages in the produc-
tion of such drugs as penicillin are possible only
in a partial or virtually complete vacuum; but it
is expensive to make a very good vacuum, and
impossible to make a very large one.
On the Moon, there will be a "hard" vacuum
of unlimited extent outside the door of every air
lock. I do not suggest that it will be worthwhile
switching much terrestrial industry to the Moon,
even if the freight charges allowed it. But the
whole history of science makes it certain that new
processes and discoveries of fundamental impor-
tance will evolve as soon as men start to carry out
operations in the lunar vacuum. Low-pressure
physics and technology will proceed from rags
to riches overnight; industries which today are
* These lines were wriltcti before Mr. Clarke at-
tended the American Rocket Society's sixteenth an-
nual meeting in New York in October. There, on
display at the Coliseum, were models of a number
of robots designed for lunar exploration. One which
attracted most pliotr)graphers was the Space-General
Corporation's sun-powered moon (rawler, whidi
would be ofjcrated Irom the F.arih, walk on jointed
legs, and transmit its findings by TV. -The Editors
unimagined will spring up on the Moon and
ship their products back to Earth. For in that
direction, the freight charges Avill be relatively
low.
LAUNCH WITHOUT BOOSTERS
THIS leads us to a major role that the
Moon will play in the development of the
solar system: it is no exaggeration to say that this
little world, so small and close at hand (the very
first rocket to reach it took only thirty-five hours
on the journey) will be the steppingstone to all
the planets. The reason for this is its low gravity;
it requires twenty times as much energy to escape
from the Earth as from the Moon. As a supply
base for all interplanetary operations, therefore,
the Moon has an enormous advantage over the
Earth— assuming, of course, that we can find the
materials we need there. This is one of the
reasons why the development of lunar technology
and industry is so important.
From the gravitational point of view, the Moon
is indeed high ground, while we on the Earth
are like dwellers at the bottom of an immensely
deep pit out of which we have to climb every
time we wish to conduct any cosmic explorations.
No wonder that we must burn a hundred tons
of rocket fuel for every ton of payload we launch
into space— and on a one-way trip at that. For
return journeys by rocket, thousands of tons
would be needed.
This is why all Earth-based plans for space
travel are so hopelessly uneconomic, involving
gigantic boosters with tiny payloads. It is as if,
in order to carry a dozen passengers across the
Atlantic, we had to construct a ship weighing as
much as the Queen Elizabeth but costing very
much more. (The development costs for a large
space vehicle are in the range of a billion dollars.)
And, to make the whole thing completely fan-
tastic, the vehicle can be used only once, for it
10 ill be destroyed in flight. Of the tens of thou-
sands of tons that leave the Earth, only a small
capsule will return. The rest will consist of
boosters dropped in the ocean or discarded in
space.
When nuclear power is harnessed for rocket
propulsion, the position will be improved from
the preposterous to the merely absurd. For even
nuclear rockets must carry hundreds of thousands
of tons of reaction mass, to provide a thrust when
it is ejected. Every rocket, nuclear or chemical,
has to have something lo ))ush against; that some-
thing is not the surrounding air, as many people
once believed, but the rocket's own fuel. How-
BY ARTHUR C. CLARKE
59
ever, tne nuclear rocket will use the very simplest
of fuels— plain hydrogen. There must be plenty
of this on the Moon, combined in water (which
is 1 1 per cent hydrogen) or in some other form.
The first order of business in lunar exploration
will be to locate sources from which hydrogen
may be obtained; when this has been done, and
it is possible for ships to refuel on the Moon, the
cost, difficulty, and complexity of all space opera-
tions will be reduced at least tenfold.
Since space craft need not carry fuel for the re-
turn trip (imagine where transatlantic flying
would be today, if it operated on this basis!) it
will no longer be necessary to build and jetti-
son ten-thousand-ton vehicles to deliver ten-ton
payloads. Instead of monstrous, mullistaged
boosters, wc can use relatively small rockets that
can be refueled and down over and over again.
Space flight Avould emerge ftom its present status
as a fantastically expensi\e stunt, and Avould
start to make economic— j)ei haps even commer-
cial-sense.
This, ho^vever, would be only a beginning.
The big breakthiough toward really efficient
space operations may de|)end upon the fortunate
fact that the Moon has no atmosphere. The
peculiar conditions (|)e(uliar by our standards—
they are normal by those of the universe) pre-
vailing there permit a launching technique much
more economical than rocket propulsion. This is
the old idea of the "space-gun," made famous by
Jules Verne almost a hundred years ago. It
would probably not be a gun in the literal sense,
powered by chemical ex]:)losives, but a horizontal
launching track like those used on aircraft car-
riers, along which sjiace vehicles could be ac-
celerated electrically until they reached sufficient
speed to escape from the Moon.
It is easy to see \\h\ such a device is completely
impractical on Earth. To escape from the Earth,
a body must reach the no^v-familiar speed of
25,000 miles an hour. At the fierce acceleration
of ten gravities, ^\•hich astronauts have already
withstood for very short periods of time, it would
take two minutes to attain this speed— and the
laimching track Avould have to be four Innnlrrd
miles long. If the acceleration ^\ere halved to
make it more endurable, the length of the track
woidd have to be doubled. And. of coinse, any
object traveling at such a speed in the lower
atmosphere woidd be instantly biniicd u]) by
friction. "W^e can forget all about space-guns on
Earth.
The situation is completely dilferent on the
Moon. Because of the almost perfect vacuum,
the lunar escape speed of a mere 5,200 mph can
be achieved at ground level without any danger
from air resistance. And at an acceleration of
ten gravities, the launching track need be only
nineteen miles long— not four hundred, as on the
Earth. It would be a massive piece of engineer-
ing, but a perfectly practical one, and it would
wholly transform the economics of space flight.
Vehicles could leave the Moon xoithout burn-
ing any fuel at all; all the work of take-off would
be done by fixed jDower plants on the ground,
which could be as large and massive as required.
The only fuel that a space vehicle returning to
Earth need carry woidd be a very small amount
for maneuvering and navigating. As a result, the
size of vehicle needed for a mission from Moon
to Earth would be reduced tenfold; a hundred-
ton space ship could do what had previously re-
quired a thousand-tonner.
FUEL BY CATAPULT
THIS kind of space travel would be a
spectacular enough improvement; the next
stage, however, would be the really decisive one.
This is the use of a Moon-based launcher or
catapidt to place supplies of fuel where they are
needed, in orbit roiuid the Earth or indeed near
or on any other planet in the solar system.
It is generally agreed that long-range space
flight— particularly voyages beyond the Moon-
will become possible only when we can refuel
om- vehicles in orbit. Plans have been drawn up
in great detail for operations involving fleets of
tanker-rockets which, perhaps over a period of
years, could establish what are virtually filling
stations in space. Such schemes will, of course,
be fantastically expensive, for it requires about
fifty tons of rocket fuel to put a single ton of
payload into orbit round the Earth, only a
couple of hundred miles up.
Yet a Moon-based launcher could do the same
job— from a distance of 250,000 miles!— for a
t^vcntieth of the energy and without consuming
any rocket fuel \\hatsoevcr. It would launch
tanks of projjcllants "down" toward Earth, and
suitable guidance systems would steer them into
stable orliits Avhere they would swing around end-
lessly until recjuired. This would have as great
an effect on the logistics of space flight as the
dropping of supi)lies by air has already had
u]K)n jK)lar cxjiloration; indeed, the parallel is a
very close one.
Though enormous amoinits of power would be
recjuired to operate such lunar catapults, this will
be no problem in the twenty-first century. A
single hydrogen bomb, weighing only a few tons.
60
THE USES OF THE MOON
already liberates enough energy to lift a hundred
million tons completely away from the Moon.
That energy will be available for useful purposes
when our grandchildren need it; if it is not, we
will have no grandchildren.
There is one other application of the lunar
catapult that may be very important, though it
may seem even more farfetched at the present
time. It could launch the products of the Moon's
technology all the way down to the surface of
the Earth. A rugged, freight-carrying capsule,
like a more refined version of today's nose cones
and re-entry vehicles, could be projected from the
Moon to make an automatic landing on the
Earth at any assigned spot. Once again, no rocket
fuel would be needed for the trip, except a few
pounds for maneuvering. All the energy of
launching would be provided by the fixed power
plant on the Moon; all the slowing down would
be done by the Earth's atmosphere. When such
a system is perfected, it may be no more ex-
pensive to ship freight from Moon to Earth than
it is now to fly it from one continent to another
by jet. Moreover, the launching catapult could
be quite short, since it would not have to deal
with fragile human passengers. If it operated at
fifty-gravities acceleration, a four-mile-long track
would be sufficient.
I have discussed this idea at some length for
two reasons. The first is that it demonstrates
how, by taking advantage of the Moon's low
gravity, its airlessness, and the raw materials that
must certainly be there, we can conduct space
exploration far more economically than by bas-
ing our operations on Earth. In fact, until some
revolutionary new method of propulsion is in-
vented, it is hard to see any other way in which
space travel will be practical on the large scale.
The second reason is the slightly more personal
one that, to the best of my knowledge, I was the
first to develop this idea in a 1950 issue of the
Journal of the British Interplanetary Society.
Five years earlier I had proposed the use of
satellites for radio and TV communications; I
did not expect to see either scheme materialize in
my lifetime, but one has already happened and
now I wonder if I may see both.
LIGHT TO REPLACE SOUND
TH E subject of communications leads us to
another extremely important use of the
Moon. As civilization spreads throughout the
solar system, it will provide the main link be-
tween Earth and her scattered children. For
though it is just as far to the other planets from
the Moon as from the Earth, sheer distance is not
the only factor involved. The Moon's surface is
already in space, while the surface of the Earth-
luckily for us— is shielded from space by a whole
series of barriers through which we have to drive
our signals. The best known of these barriers is,
of course, the ionosphere, which reflects all but
the shorter radio waves back to Earth. The short-
est waves of all, however, go through it with
little difficulty, so the ionosphere is no hindrance
to space communications.
What Js a serious barrier— and this has been
realized only during the past vear— is the atmos-
phere itself. Thanks to the development of an
extraordinary new optical device called the laser,
which I must ask you to take for granted, it now
appears that the best agent for long-distance com-
munications is not radio, but light. A light beam
can carry millions of times as many messages as a
radio wave, and can be focused with infinitely
greater accuracy. Indeed, a laser-produced light
beam could produce a spot on the Moon only a
few hundred feet across, where the beam from
a searchlieht would be thousands of miles in
diameter. Thus colossal ranges could be obtained
with very little power; calculations show that
with lasers we can think of signaling to the stars,
not merely to the planets.
But we cannot use light beams to send mes-
sages through the Earth's erratic atmosphere; a
passing cloud could block a signal that had
traveled across a billion miles of space. On the
airless Moon, however, this would be no prob-
lem, for the sky is perpetually clear to waves of
all frequencies, from the longest radio waves,
through visible light, past the ultraviolet, and
even down to the short X-rays which are blocked
by a few inches of air. This whole immense range
of electromagnetic waves will be available for
communications or any other use— perhaps such
applications as the broadcasting of power, which
have never been practical on Earth. There will
be enough "band-width" (or ether space) for all
the radio and TV services we can ever imagine,
no matter how densely populated the planets be-
come and however many messages the men of the
future wish to flash back and forth across the
solar system.
We can thus imagine the Moon as a sort of
central clearinghouse for interplanetary com-
munications, aiming its tightly focused light
beams to the other planets and to ships in space.
Any messages that concerned Earth would be
radioed across the trivial 250,000-mile gulf on
those wave lengths that penetrate our atmos-
phere.
BY ARTHUR C. CLARKE
61
There are several other reasons why the Moon
might almost have been designed as a base for
interplanetary communications. Everyone is now
familiar with the enormous radio telescopes
which have been built to reach out into space
and to maintain contact with such distant probes
as our Pioneers and Explorers (and the Rangers,
Mariners, and Prospectors that will follow them).
The most ambitious of these instruments is the
gigantic radio telescope (six hundred feet in
diameter) to be built near Sugar Grove, West
Virginia. This, the largest mobile structure on
Earth, contains 20,000 tons of metal and will cost
over $100 million.
On the Moon, both the cost and weight of this
huge structure might be slashed to a few per cent.
Thanks to the low gravity, a very much lighter
construction could be used than is necessary on
Earth. And the Moon's airlessness pays another
dividend, for a terrestrial telescope has to be
designed with a substantial safety factor so that
it can withstand the worst that the weather can
do. There is no need to worry about gales on
the Moon, where there is not the slightest breeze
to disturb the most gossamer structures.
Nor have we yet finished with the Moon's ad-
vantages from the view of those who want to
send (and receive) signals across space. It turns
so slowly on its axis that the problem of tracking
is much simplified; ntid it is a quiet place. Or, to
be more accurate, the far side of the Moon is a
quiet place— probably the quietest that now exists
within millions of miles of the Earth. I am
speaking, of course, in the radio sense; for the
last sixty years, our planet has been pouring an
ever-increasing racket into space. This has al-
ready seriously inconvenienced the radio astrono-
mers, whose observations can be ruined by an
electric shaver a hundred miles away.
But the land first glimpsed by Lunik III is
beyond the reach of this electronic tumult; it is
shielded from the din of Earth by two thousand
miles of solid rock— a far better protection than
a million miles of empty space. Here, where the
earthlight never shines, will be the communica-
tions centers of the future, linking together with
radio and light beams all the inhabited planets.
And one day, perhaps, they will reach out beyond
the solar system to make contact with those other
intelligences for whom the first search has already
begun. That search can hardly hope for success
until we have succeeded in escaping from the
braying of all the radio and TV stations of our
own planet.
What has already been said should be more
than enough to convince any imaginative per-
son—anyone who does not believe that the future
will be a carbon copy of the past— that the Moon
will be a priceless possession and its exploration
far more than the expensive scientific stunt that
some foolish people have called it. At the same
time it should be emphasized that the most im-
portant and valuable uses of the Moon will be
ones that nobody has thought of today. I will
merely hint at a few possibilities here.
WHO DESERVES IT?
IN A recent discussion of space exploration.
Professor Harold Urey made the point that
the Moon is one of the most interesting places in
the solar system— in some ways more so than
Mars or Venus, even though there may be life on
these planets. For the face of the Moon may have
carried down the ages, virtually untouched by
time, a record of the conditions that existed bil-
lions of years ago, when the universe itself was
young. On Earth, all such records have long ago
been erased by the winds and the rains and other
geological forces. When we reach the Moon, it
will be as if an entire library of lost volumes, a
million times older than the library destroyed
at Alexandria, will be suddenly thrown open
to us.
Quite beyond price will be the skills we will
acquire during the exploration— and ultimately,
colonization— of this new land in the sky. I sus-
pect, though only time will tell whether this is
true, that we will learn more about unorthodox
methods of food production on the Moon within
a few years than we could in decades on Earth.
Can we, in an almost literal sense of the phrase,
turn rocks into food? We must master this art
(as the plants did, aeons ago) if we hope to
conquer space. Perhaps most exciting of all are
the possibilities opened up by low-gravity medi-
cine and the enormous question: "Will men live
longer on a world where they do not wear out
their hearts fighting against gravity?" Upon the
answer to this will depend the future of many
worlds, and of nations yet unnamed.
Much of politics, as of life, consists of the ad-
ministration of the unforeseen. We can foresee
only a minute fraction of the Moon's potentiali-
ties, and the Moon itself is only a tiny part of
the universe. The fact that the Soviet Union is
making an all-out effort to get there has far
deeper implications than have been generally
faced.
The Russians, whatever else they may be, are
realists. And as Sir Charles Snow has pointed
out in his highly influential book, Science and
62
THE USES OF THE MOON
Goxiernment, between 35 and 45 per cent of their
top men have some technical and scientific train-
ing. (It is doubtful if the proportion is a quarter
of this in the West.) As a residt, tliey have often
made correct choices— for example, the decision
to develop the lithiimi bomb and giant rocket
boosters— when the United States wasted its ener-
gies in such technological dead ends as tritium
bombs and air-breathing missiles.
They may have done so again in the most im-
portant field of all. I wonder if any of the
"Leave it to the Russians" school of anti-space-
fiight critics seriously imagines that Soviet science
is outward bound merely to impress the uncom-
mitted nations. That could be achieved in a
do/en less expensive ways. No, the Russians know
exactly what they are doing. Perhaps they are
already laughing at the shortsighted prophets
who have said: "Anyone who owns the Moon can
dominate the Earth." They may no longer be
concerned with such trivialities. They realize
that if any nation has mastery of the Moon, it
will dominate not merely the Earth, but the
whole accessible universe.
If, in November 1967, there are only Russians
on the Moon to drink a toast to the fiftieth an-
ni\ersary of the Revolution, they will have won
the solar system, and theirs will be the voice of
the future.
As it will deserve to be.
SAME JOHNNY
KVERAL months ago a report was prepared and published by Mr. George A.
Walton, a well-known educator, of his study of the school of Norfolk County,
Massachusetts, which county contains a ninnber of the more wealthy and
populous suburbs of Boston and belongs to a state which has not been sparing
of its money Avhen (he schools were in question. . . . [The results of Mr. Walton's
study were startling.] The examinations submitted to the children by him were
of the simplest and most practical character. They had but one object- to see
if the children were taught to read, write, and cijiher. And it was found that not
a single utterly exploded method of teaching these things was not flourishing in
this wealthiest portion of New England, and that not even the fourteen-year-old
scholars could meet the tests. ...
In most [of the schools] when the chikhen were called upon to write the
simplest of letters, the results were even more fearful than they were wonderful.
In some of the schools the teachers objected to submitting their scholars to so
severe a test, and in some the pupils "could neither write nor make printing
letters." In many of the schools the pupils were so unused to com])osition writing
that after the materials were placed in their hands and the directions given,
they sat in apj)arent amazement, as if the most unreasonable demand had been
made upon them. And many papers were returned cpute blank— including those
asking for the plainest of sums in arithmetic.
The ingenuity in si)elling was simply incredible. Who could believe, for
instance, that there could be 2.80 ways to spell "scholar" and 108 ways to spell
"w]iosc"?-but ihey are listed in Mr. VValton's report \nd the Norfolk County
School Association finds that the weight of evidence would indicate that this con-
dition has been found to exist pretty much everywhere else in the country! ....
Why is this so? Mr. Walton says that his "exannnations clearly indicate that
more depends upon the supervision of the school than upon all other causes
combiiucl." Hut what is a good system of school supervision? It has gone through
many phases-and the last phase seems to have resulted in an indefinite multipli-
caiioii ol things to be taught and a huge mechanical educational machine which
culiivaies only the imilalive and nuinori/ing faculties of the children and gives
litilc or no allciiiion lo ilic iliinking and redeclive powers. . . .
-Ilarljcr's Mn;^fizi?ir, November 1880
Harper's Magazine, December 1961
WILLIAM G. CARLETON
The Cult of Personality
Comes to the White House
Hoiv some basic shifts in American society
are changing the nature of the
Presidency — at the expense of both parties and
of oil the second-level politicians.
ALTHOUGH Kennedy has been Piesi-
tlent only a short time, the public already
is reacting to him largely as a personality, in
much the same way that it reacted to Eisenhower.
Kennedy has captured the public imagination
and the opinion polls show him to be widely
popular as an individual no matter what he does
officially. In the same fashion Eisenhower re-
mained the hero of an adoring public without
reference to his achievements; but since he played
down the powers of the Presidency, the trend
toward a personality cult was little noted. Be-
cause the pattern is being so quickly repeated it
is now evident that the personalization of the
Presidency reflects some significant changes in the
American political landscape. The nature— and
probable consequences— of these changes are par-
ticularly clear because of Kennedy's determina-
tion to function as a "strong" President.
Before his election Kennedy frequently stated
his views on this subject. And since his inaugura-
tion he has operated in that tradition, speaking
to and for the nation on great issues. He has
boldly taken responsibility for a national legis-
lative program and his lieutenants have brought
their influence to bear on Congress with ex-
traordinary efficiency. Already he has a tighter
grip on the federal administrative agencies than
other Presidents have had.
This commanding posture is, of course, to
some extent a reflection of his style, tempera-
ment, and intellectual vigor. It is also— and
more importantly— the result of the way in
which he won his high office. Among our
"strong" Presidents, no other reached the White
House with so little dependence on his party's
leaders. Wilson, for example, fought for the
nomination in the customary way against heavy
odds, by making alliances with party leaders
and winning delegates in the states. During
the campaign he shared the spotlight with
party leaders like Bryan, Clark, and Under-
wood, and after election he was not free to pass
over Bryan for Secretary of State as Kennedy was
free to pass over Stevenson, Bowles, and Ful-
bright. FDR too won his battle for the nomina-
tion because Farley and Howe laboriously
solicited the support of local bigwigs and dele-
gates before the 1932 convention. To cement
these vital alliances, or subsequently to win addi-
tional support, the Roosevelt Cabinets had to
include men of top political stature like Cordell
Hull and Henry Stimson and free-wheeling in-
dividualists like Wallace, Ickes, and Jesse Jones.
Kennedy, in contrast, did not owe his nomina-
tion to a patient search for the backing of his
party's leading politicians but rather to an
elaborate personal organization, exploitation of
the primaries and opinion polls, and skillful use
of the mass media. During the campaign be-
like Nixon— dwarfed all other party leaders.
After his election he rejected the classic party
Cabinet for an administrative one and to an
unusual degree favored specialists over politicians
in filling other posts. Five heads of depart-
ments—Rusk, Dillon, McNamara, Day, and Gold-
berg—are technicians and "administrators." The
other five— Robert Kennedy, Udall, Freeman,
Hodges, and Ribicoff— are politicians. But none
was a national figure before 1961. All owe their
prominence to Presidential appointment.
Thus surrounded by satellites rather than
political equals or competitors Kennedy has.
64
THE CULT or PERSONALITY
since his election, virtually monopolized the
limelight. He has appeared on radio and TV
more often and in more varied ways than any
of his predecessors, and he is the first President
whose press conferences have been televised live.
TV cameramen and photo-journalists invade the
White House to portray him going through his
daily chores. In a flow of personal messages he
links his name with stars of the entertainment
and sports world. The White House today is the
subject of an unprecedented volume and range
of news and human-interest coverage.
To a degree this was bound to happen.
Though Eisenhower was a national hero, his
Administration was dull and stulfy. The nation
was in a mood to be charmed by the young and
vigorous President, his attractive wife, and the
whole effervescent Kennedy clan. Moreover, the
President and Mrs. Kennedy make incomparable
copy, combining liie j^ublicity ajipeal of vast
political Jlo^\•er, martial heroism, high fashion,
dashing international society, and the scholarly-
literary-artistic world, with the uplift of Eleanor
Roosevelt, the tenderness of yoimg parents
shown in the women's magazines, and the glam-
our of sports, stage, and movie siars.
Although he and his wife are publicity
"naturals" the President has deliberately made
himself accessible to the mass media. Much of
his astonishing activity— oflkial and personal-
has grown out of a conscious ellort to overcome
the handicaps of his youthfulness, his close elec-
tion, and his lack of conspicuous political
achievement or the kind of prestige which brings
general and automatic acceptaiue of leadershij).
Aware too of the crises the nation faces, he has
been in a hurry to prove his mettle.
Other Presidents, to be sure, have not been
camera-shy. Theodore Roosevelt, for instance,
was a glutton for jjublicity. But he had to share
it with ranking leaders in his Cabinet like Hay
and Root, with Nelson Aldrich's gioup in the
Senate, and with Speaker Joe Cannon in the
House, in a way that Keiniedy does not share it
with Rayburn, Mansfield, Fulbiight, or even
Lyndon Johnson. FDR used radio with maivel-
For more than a quarter-century, IVilliam G.
Carlelon was at the I nirersity of Florida, where until
his retirement this jail he was professor of pnHfiraJ
science. He is now worldnp: full-time on leeturiwx.
research, and writing — concentrating on a hook
about American political parties. He has published
scores of articles in lendni; magazines here and
abroad, including ' Harpr/s."
ous effectiveness, but he was careful not to over-
use it; and the mass media did not invade the
privacy of his office or his home life at Hyde
Park as they have overrun President Kennedy's
office and his homes in Hyannis Port and Palm
Beach.
It is true that we have always been inclined
to dramatize the office of the President and
glorify the individual who holds it. But the
intensity and pervasiveness of this hero-worship
are new phenomena. This is to some extent the
result of the new mass media and their enormous
im})act. In part it is also the result of our need
to use the President as a symbol of national
unity in a time of continuing world crisis. After
both the U-2 incident and the Cuban misadven-
ture, although the nation's world jirestige went
down, the President's personal jjopularity went
up. Other causes are to be found in the shifting
(omposition of our society, in the decline of
old-fashioned political partisanshij), and in im-
j)oriaiU and jjrobably permanent changes in
American politics over the past two decades.
DRIVING BY ONE STAR
TH E modern President has little need of
his party's top men at any point in his
drive toward the White House. National nomi-
nating conventions no longer select dark horses
or e\en favorite sons. They now endorse a na-
tional favorite, usually the outstanding national
favorite, as measured by victories in the primaries
and ratings in the public-opinion polls. Political
leatlers and delegates in national conventions are
being reduced to rubber stamps.
Today, a Presidential hopeful makes an in-
tensi\e personal camjjaign for many months prior
to the convention. This involves immense energy,
much inonc), and the building of a personal or-
ganization down to the grass roots. Immediately
after his convention victory, the Presidential
nominee names the Vice-Presidential candidate,
a practice tlaiing only from the l<)l()s. (Kennedy
made no bones about his jjeisonal selection of
Johnson, and, although Nixon went through the
motions of consulting other jiart) leaders, it was
clear from the start that he had already decided
on Lodge.) Following the adjournment of the
convention, the nominee chooses the chairman
of his jiait)'s national committee (a jjraclice of
long standing), but in leceiit Presidential cam-
j)aigns new organizational pioceduies of a more
])eisonal kind ha\e been cleveloj)ing. For the
camj)aign pro])er, the nominee now expands his
pie-coiuenlion oiganizalion to all parts ol the
BY WILLIAM G. CARLETON
65
country and selects his own campaign manager.
This manager in turn appoints state campaign
heads who often pick lieutenants as far down the
line as the county level. For the duration of the
campaign, the candidate's centralized organiza-
tion frequently is more important than his party's
regular, decentralized organizations, and some-
times it by-passes the party's national, state, and
even local committees.
As the campaign gets going, all other party
leaders retire to the wings, leaving the spotlight
almost exclusively to the Presidential nominees.
The star performer in each party makes all im-
portant campaign pronouncements and virtually
monopolizes the campaign tours, the speech-
making, the publicity, and his party's radio and
TV time. In future years the TV debates be-
tween the nominees are likely to dominate the
campaign. These debates, particularly if they
retain the 1960 format, are an open invitation to
a personality cult.
This concentration on the two Presidential
nominees is a practice of recent origin. During
the nineteenth century, the candidates remained
in the background and leading politicians in
both parties bore the brunt of campaigning.
William Jennings Bryan was the first Presidential
nominee to stump the country in the contempo-
rary style. Since then, Presidential nominees
have campaigned actively and have usually con-
ducted country-wide speaking tours. But many
other party chieftains also made extensive swings
and were given almost as much publicity.
In 1960, however, party leaders Avith a future
in politics were relegated to the background.
Many Democrats asked why Adlai Stevenson and
Chester Bowles were not making speeches. Many
Republicans wondered why Governor Rocke-
feller was not more active. To be sure, the high-
level leaders of both parties were engaged more
than was obvious. But they were not given the
conspicuous roles formerly assigned them; they
were not on national radio and TV networks;
what they said was rarely given top news
coverage.
When party leaders in the prime of life are
denied publicized national roles during a Presi-
dential campaign, their public influence dimin-
ishes, the triumphal Presidential candidate looms
larger, and the other leaders of the winning party
lose their capacity to help mold the personnel
and policies of the new Administration.
Today's nominee simply does not need their
help. He must, of course, align himself with one
of the major parties to win a majority in the
Electoral College. But if we adopted a system
in which the President was elected merely by a
plurality of the popular vote, there might come
a time when a candidate could capture the office
solely through his glamour, his personal organiza-
tion, and his shrewd use of the mass media.
WHY WE WANT A LANDSLIDE
EVEN now, once he has been nominated, his
chances largely depend on the national
trend for or against "the ins," rather than on
party efforts in his behalf. Unlike the nineteenth
century, most Presidential elections in the twen-
tieth century have been landslides, generally in
both the popular vote and the Electoral College.
Only three, 1916, 1948, and 1960, have been close
—and the election of 1960 would probably also
have been decisive for Kennedy but for the
strength of the "No Popery" sentiment. It is
actually difficult to have a close election today
because of our continuing crisis psychology and
the way the national media both reflect and help
mold a national mood. (It is a curious fact that
in a Republican year the major newspapers and
magazines mirror the attitudes of their owners
and publishers while in a Democratic year they
reflect the views of their working reporters, cor-
respondents, commentators, and columnists.)
The nation now expects and wants a decisive
Presidential election; it feels uncomfortable when
the outcome is close. Because of our fear of an
uncertain interregnum in time of peril and our
self-consciousness in the face of a watching world,
a contested Presidential election would be in-
tolerable. For these reasons the Republicans in
I960 did not dare carry out the threat of recounts
in the close states; similarly the Dixiecrats
quailed at the prospect of actually exploiting the
potential deadlock in the Electoral College,
which they had so long awaited.
The decline of old-fashioned partisanship also
fosters one-sided election swings. Sectional at-
titudes, those tenacious leftovers from the Civil
War and Reconstruction, are dwindling. Demo-
cratic strength has waxed in once overwhelmingly
Republican states, and Republicans have gained
in the South, not so much because people have
transferred their party allegiance but because
their voting habits have become nonpartisan. In
the old Republican states many Democratic
ballots are cast by voters who do not register
as Democrats, and the reverse is true in the South
of many who vote Republican.
The shifting composition of our society has
contributed in large measure to the weakening
of party ties. This is happening despite the fact
66
THE CULT OF PERSONALITY
that the old entrepreneurial groups are more
firmly Republican rfian in pre-New Deal days,
while organized labor and most of the minority
groups are more firmly Democratic. For these
classes in general are declining in numerical
strength, either relatively or absolutely, and the
rapidly growing white-collar salaried groups have
become the largest element in the American
population. Less organized than businessmen,
older f)rofessional groups, wage-workers, and
even farmers, they are traditionally less attached
to either of the parties. Their voting behavior
is more dejjendent on immediate conditions,
issues, and personalities.
Once elected, a new President, no matter how
much lip ser\i(e he has paid to part\' (hn ing the
campaign, is now singularly free to mold his Ad-
ministration in his own design. And it is at this
point that one can distinguish between the fac-
tors A\'hich personalize the office and those ^vhich
contribute to a "strong" Presidency. As can be
seen clearly in the contrast between Eisenho^ver
and Kennedy, the admiicd and publicized hero
does not necessarily become a vigorous wielder of
executive power.
ENTER THE "eXPERTS"
TH E strong President takes the initiative in
all major alfaiis of government. In spite
of the theory of separation of powers, it is he
who formulates a national legislative program,
takes responsibility for it, and fights vigorously
for its enactment in Congress.
Elements of the strong Presidency go far back
into our history. President Jederson is said to
have maneuvered for his legislative progiam by
"embodying himself in the House of Representa-
tives." Both Jackson and Polk were strong Presi-
dents and vigorous party leaders; both battled
aggressively for their legislati\e programs in Con-
gress. President Lincoln, because of the crisis of
the Ci\il Way, wielded more power than any
President before him. Between Lincoln and the
first Roosevelt, however, most of our chief execu-
tives were "Constitutional" Presidents. The
initiative in govermnent, and sometimes in
foreign alfaiis, was usually with Congress.
During the twentieth century, the strong Presi-
dency was develojK'd markedly by Theodore
Roosevelt, Wilson, FDK, and in many ways,
Fi unian.
A major diderence between Kdincdy and his
predecessors, however, is his annouiucd intention
ol opeialing as a strong I'resideiil. Others were
more reticent. Even Wilson— who wioic i)ooks
in his academic years which are classic works on
the subject— said little about the strong Presi-
dency after he went into politics. In the Ameri-
can tradition, the Napoleonic pose has not had
much popular appeal.
Yet even if he is disinclined to do so, the man
in the AVhite House in the lOGOs must inevitably
shoulder immensely augmented executive respon-
sibility. This is true in domestic as well as
foreign affairs. The increasingly technical and
complex nature of federal legislation has forced
Congressional hnvmakers to turn for help to the
sj^ecialists in the administrative agencies. Until
the 19'j()s relatively few .Americans felt the direct
impact of Avhat Congress did or failed to do.
l)Ut today many individuals and huge organized
grou])s have a crucial stake in legislation on
civil rights, housing, social security, education,
higlnvays, conservation, and many other j)rob-
lems before Congress. Because the whole country
is his constituency, »the President can alford to
take the lead in these controversial matters much
more easily than the Representatives or Senators.
If the President oflends some poAverful groups, he
can compensate by gains in popularity among
others and in the nation at large. With static
rural regions disproportionately overrepresented
in Congress, the fast-growing urban areas are in-
creasingly foiced to look to the Piesident to fight
for their interests.
In the Presideiuy itself, a rather new sense of
urgency is de\ eloping. Richard E. Neustadt, for
example, argues in his book Presidential Poxver
that, as the fedeial govermnent takes on new
functions and as federal agencies become more
numerous and comjilex, the President must
sujieixise them moie closely, gain and keep a
masieiy o\er them if they are to be efficient and
resj)onsibIe. This book is said to have deeply
impressed President Kennedy, who has, it would
seem, acted on this premise in the conduct of
his office to date, particularly in preferring ex-
perts o\er j)oliiicians in the key posts in his
Administration.
The louver echelons of govermnent have, of
coiuse, for many years been staffed by civil
servants divoiced from politics. But filling the
top creative and decision-making jobs with
trained admiin'straiors and technical specialists
is a new ])henomenon. Formerly these j)osts went
to party leadeis and to eminent j)oliticians or
])rominent citizens they reconunended to the
Piesident. Today many politicians feel that these
plums aie now going not merely to anothei but
to an alien biccd. "We clon'l ha\e nuich
chemistry with the guys we talk to at the White
BY WILLIAM G. CARLETON
House," a prominent Democrat said recently.
It is plausibly claimed that the President must
be surrounded by brain-trusters rather than
politicians to perform the many difficult func-
tions now expected of him. And it must be con-
ceded that the Kennedy appointments have been
of a high order. However, we should also take
note of the fact that the increasing number of
specialists in high office reflects a major change
in our government and political institutions.
The trend is away from government by poli-
ticians and toward government by career experts,
away from government by party and toward
government by a personalized Presidency. What
are the foreseeable consequences?
THE USE OF
CONGRESSIONAL EGOS
THERE are those who see the increasingly
personalized Presidency as a threat to our
liberties. I seriously doubt that there is, in fact,
any such danger. It would take a full-scale
totalitarian movement, actually come to power,
to stifle liberties in a society as plural and diverse
as America, in a government with as many
checks, formal and informal, as ours.
Are we overexposing the President to the pub-
lic? Conservative commentators, among them
the late John Temple Graves, lament that Presi-
dential activities are becoming commonplace and
robbing the Presidency of all mystery. But "the
majesty and mystery" of government, relevant to
Walter Bagehot's deferential Englishmen of the
nineteenth century, is archaic today, even in
Britain. President de Gaulle, a lonely survivor
of the tradition of majesty and mystery in gov-
ernment, is an anachronism.
Are we overtaxing the President? In a recent
book, Herman Finer has mobilized impressive
evidence to show that the President has always
carried a crushing burden but that today the
proliferation and intensification of national and
international problems threaten to make that
burden literally unbearable. Professor Finer was
writing primarily of the expansion of the Presi-
dent's traditional official duties; he did not take
into account the burdens added by the increasing
personalization of the nomination, the election,
and the office itself. Given all these factors, I
believe there is real danger that the modern
Presidency may make demands beyond human
endurance.
The difficulties of the office will be inevitably
compounded if the President comes to rely too
much on the experts and too little on leaders
with political brains and experience. Perhaps
there is already too great a tendency for him to
say to his technical advisers: "You give me the
facts and the advice that come out of your
specialized knowledge, and I will supply the
political hunch, take the political responsibility,
and sell the policy to Congress and the country."
The exercise of the political art is subtle and at
best imsure, and even a consummate political
artist needs the counsel and co-operation of suc-
cessful fellow practitioners, in foreign and mili-
tary as well as domestic affairs.
For example, before embarking on the Cuban
fiasco, President Kennedy paid far more atten-
tion to the experts in the Pentagon and the
Central Intelligence Agency than to politicians
like Stevenson, Bowles, and Fulbright. Senator
Fulbright vigorously opposed the adventure in
any form, but he was overruled. Yet the decisive
questions, in truth, were whether Castro had
genuine popular mass support in Cuba and what
the reaction of Latin Americans would be to
United States intervention, open or veiled. These
are the kinds of questions on which the "feel"
of the politician experienced in foreign affairs,
when in conflict with the dossiers of the technical
experts, is likely to be superior.
By increasingly excluding Congressional and
other party leaders from active and meaningful
participation in the nominating process, the
campaign, and the high-level appointments after
the election, are we not apt to make the Presi-
dent's relations with Congress even more pre-
carious than they have been? The stalemate
which ended Kennedy's attempt to reorganize
the administrative agencies— as recommended
by James M. Landis— illustrates Congressional
jealousy of its prerogatives. The President's
failure to win approval for his long-term foreign-
aid plan is another case in point.
Even our strongest Presidents have had a hard
time getting their programs through Congress,
especially after the honeymoon first months. On
Capitol Hill parties break down into factions,
party discipline is lax, and Senators and Repre-
sentatives are prone to follow local and sectional
interests and pressures. It is a melancholy fact
that the most famous Senators of this century-
Lodge, Borah, La Follette, Norris, and Taft— all
made their reputations in opposition to the
President.
The legislative successes of the Kennedy Ad-
ministration have been due in some degree to the
legislative lag inherited from the lean Eisen-
hower years, the White House's tactical taboo
on civil-rights legislation, the Administration's
68
THE CULT OF PERSONALITY
iiianv social courtesies to membeis of Congress,
and the shreAvd operations (often involving
patronage deals) of Kennedy's liaison team in
Congress. Yet the Kennedy honeymoon record
will not match the legislative accomplishments
of AVilson's or FDR's first year. Roadblocks were
encountered on federal aid to schools, federal
health insurance for the aged, and the overhaul
of farm laws. The foreign-aid bill ran into diffi-
culties, as did tax-reform legislation. There is
increasing irritation in Congress over the "pushi-
ness" of the brisk young White House aides, and
this will become more apparent as the amount of
disposable patronage diminishes. Under our sys-
tem of separation of powers there will always be
some Presidential-Congressional tension, which
is intensified by the malajiportionment of Con-
gress discriminating against the fast-grow'ing
metropolitan areas. But the trend to a personal-
ized Presidency, the growth of something akin to
an inferiority complex in Congress, and the in-
creasing use by the ^\''hite House of the brain-
truster type even in "j^ractical politics"— the
substitution of cold expertise for the old folksy
camaraderie— may increase the tension in the
coming years.
No area in our government has called forth
more discussion and more suggestions for "re-
form" than executive-legislative relations. Most
of the "plans" proposed have attempted to give
us more unified and responsible parties on the
British model. But when such proposals are
thoroughly aired it becomes plain that we can-
not take specific features of the British govern-
ment out of context and insert them into a
different system. There are political scientists
today who want President Kennedy to use his
powers and popularity to purge conservatives in
his party and encourage liberals, especially in
the South. But past experience clearly teaches
that party alignments are the result of historical
development, and not of political surgery, and
that efTf)ris to force realignments are futile. It
has also been suggested in some quarters that the
President should attempt to build a personal
organization in Congress comparable to the one
he built to win the Presidency. Fortunatelv this
notion has won few supporters and it seems un-
likely that we will have a modern American
version of the King's Friends in Parliament.
indeed all these proposals for remodeling our
iuMitutions are unrealistic. Under our system
of government, Presidential-Congressional rela-
tions nnist always have an elemeni of uncer-
'.'iniy. The trend to a jjcrsonalized Presidency
.Old government by experts will create additional
difficulties unless they are anticipated now and
imless a serious attempt is made now to counter-
act them. How can this be done?
A QUIET RESCUE OPERATION
AS .AN immediate step, sureh it would be
A\'ise for the President to concede more of
the spotlight to Congressional leaders, encourage
them to appear in public as having fathered
Administration measines, and in general give
more rewards and prestige to members of Con-
gress who support his program. ^\1n not invite
Congressional chairmen to make the initial an-
nouncements of appointments and Administra-
tion policies, Avhere these are connected with the
work of their committees? "Why not increasingly
arrange to have leading members of Congress
and the committee chairmen explain in the press
and on radio and TV the legislative measures
of the Administration? For instance, would it
not be well at times to allow Senator Mansfield
to make the original announcements about new
domestic programs of the .Administration, Sen-
ator Fulbright the initial pronouncements about
new foreign piograms? "Were the .Administration
to sponsor ncAV legislation dealing with labor
unions or the interstate gambling rackets, would
it nr)t be fair to give public credit to the Mc-
Clellan committee? In filing the antitrust ]:)ros-
ecutions against certain drug manufacturers,
AV'oidd it not have been just— and politic— to have
referred to the exploratory investigations made
by Senator Kefauver's committee? .And could not
Senators Javits, Case, Cooper, and other Repub-
lican liberals— as well as prominent members of
the House— be giAcn, publicly, an Administra-
tion pat on the back now and then?
In short, something akin to the kind of build-
up that the Truman Administration, of neces-
sity, gave the late Senator .Arthur H. Vanden-
berg in foreign affairs might be given— deliber-
ately and freely— to a number of Congressional
leaders, in both domestic and foreign matters,
especially to those in the President's oAvn party.
It is to such quiet, psychological tactics, rather
than to changes in governmental and party struc-
tines, that we must look for closer co-operation
of President and Congress.
The prestige and publicity of the office are
now so overwhelming that a President can well
allord to share them with C^ongressional leaders,
so that irritation and antagonism grcnving out of
government by brain-trusters and a personalized
Presidency may be foiestalled and Presidential-
Congressional relations j)ermanently imj)roved.
JIdiJjcr':, Mdgdzinc, December 1961
pW!>MM!!l!eM!
m
Research member of "Financial Cabinet" interviews / major electronics company president
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SAFE DEPOSIT AND
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How minding
our o^vn
business
gets a lot of
other things
done
Modern School in
an Ancient Land
Civilization has a long record in Iraq, home of
cuneiform writing and the oldest known code of laws.
But the discovery of oil called for new skills. I=y
(tsso^
STANDARD OIL COMPANY
(New Jersfty) ^s»»,,«-ii^
Not only is instruction free, but those attending the
Center are paid at normal industrial rates. Students
of unusual ability receive further training in Europe.
Because it needed those skills, the oil company in
Iraq in which Jersey Standard has an interest built
and staffed an Industrial Training Center at Kirkuk.
Here teaching is offered to employees — in Arabic,
English, mathematics, science,accounting. In ten years
580 apprentices have taken the five-year course.
On completing their education, these employees are
placed in various departments throughout the
company. A number of them have risen to high posts.
Some take jobs in other fields. Either way, their train-
ing contributes to Iraq's economy. Business, conducted
with imagination, often produces unexpected benefits.
68C
^p^^"
^^It may take some generations to convert these people to modern technology,
but their nay of life has values for them.''^ — Photographs by W. E. Bullard.
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W. E. BULLARD
GUINEAN DIARY
Life in Africans First Marxist State
An American expert, sent there by the UN,
tells how the Russians are running
into plenty of trouble in their efforts to set
up a Communist society in the jungle.
WH O goes to Guinea? Not many Ameri-
cans certainly. Last year there were
perhaps twenty on the Embassy and Information
Service staff, forty teachers, a clo/en or so mis-
sionaries, and about three businessmen. I was
the only American sent there by the United
Nations.
One day in the fall of 1959 I Avas talking to a
UN recruiter in Portland, Oregon, trying to
think of likely prospects for the engineers and
foresters he was seeking for a number of missions.
When he discovered I had some knowledge of
French, he whipped out a job description in
French and asked me to read it to him. It
covered the terms of a one-year contract for a
forestry post in the new Republic of Guinea. As
there are not many American foresters who
know French and even fewer interested in over-
seas work, I got an immediate job offer. Four
years earlier I had been to Yugoslavia on a
similar mission for the FAO, and my wife and I
had enjoyed it immensely. So there was little
question about our accepting this time.
Guinea— about the size of Arizona— is located
on the Atlantic coast at the southwest corner of
the western bulge of Africa. Until October 1958,
when it became independent, it was part of
French West Africa. The abrupt departure of
the French officials and the apparent unwilling-
ness of the Western countries to step in left the
new president, Sekou Toure, dangling and he
turned to the Communist bloc for help.
After a couple of days' briefing at'UN head-
quarters in New York, I boarded a plane for
Conakry, the capital. While I went on ahead to
find suitable housing, my wife and son had
nothing to do but put everything in storage,
sublet our house, buy tropical wardrobes, change
our magazine subscriptions, shut off the milk and
the telephone, and a few dozen similar chores.
When I stepped from the plane, the humid
heat of the Conakry morning hit me like a blow.
I felt worse as I neared the airport buildings and
saw soldiers everywhere, with burp-guns cradled
in their arms. It was a couple of days before I
noticed there were no clips in the guns.
A couj)le of hinidred Guinean women crowded
around the airport, laughing, singing, skipping
through dance steps, all of them clothed in bril-
liant, harmonizing colors. The Canadian UN
officer who collected me told me I had picked
the wrong day to arrive— President Sukarno and
a large Indonesian delegation were due that
morning and all outbound traffic on the main
road had been stopped. He invited me to have
coffee while we waited for the official UN car.
The demitasse of stout black brew demanded
sugar, Avhich came in large rougli cubes. My new
friend explained that it was Russian sugar and
practically insoluble. If you put it on a string,
you could use it in a dozen cups of colTee without
softening it, and if you threw it into the road,
the first car to run over it would blow a tire.
W^hile I looked for an apartment, I stayed at
the Hotel de France, far and away the best hotel
in Conakry. It gets the sea bree/e from two sides
of the peninsula and so is remarkably free from
the dust and flying insects that plague the rest of
the city. But it did have its quota of wildlife.
Large shiny brown cockroaches li\'ed in the bath-
room drains. Tiny ants trailed the floors and
walls and ceilings searching for tidbits. One
night I smashed a large, furry tan spider b^
throwing a French whodunit at it; the next mor
ing there wasn't a trace of him— the ants ai
70
GUINEAN DIARY
roaches had done their job. The bread served at
the hotel was rich in this kind of protein, too,
but after a few days I relaxed and contented my-
self with removing only the more obvious of the
insects baked into it.
DONE IN BY BANANAS
TH E job the UN sent me to fill was Joint
Chief of the Rivers and Forest Service, and
1 was to take equal part with the Guinean chief
in administration and training. I had been in
Guinea only five days when I was sent on a trip
to Mamou in the interior to attend an interna-
tional conference on land management and soil
and water conservation. Besides me— the only
American— there were two Portuguese from their
Guinea, Frenchmen representing Mali and
Dahomey, British technicians representing Sierre
Leone and Nigeria, a Dutchman working for
Nigeria, several French and Belgians working
with the commission which organized the meet-
ing, and a dozen or so Guineans. After a couple
of days of meetings, we loaded into cars and
jeeps for a tour through the mountains to see
some of the problem areas.
In the mountain villages, with their circular
clay houses and conical thatched roofs, patches of
vegetables and rows of banana, papaya, and
coffee trees are planted around the huts, and
chickens are everywhere. The coffee is about the
only cash crop. On the hillsides, where the
thick forest has been felled and burned, moun-
tain rice and fonio are the principal crops.
Erosion is rampant; only within the enclosures
where the plantings are fertilized with animal
manures, can cultivation be continued more
than a few years. The villages are simply moved
from time to time.
The cattle, a small odd-looking breed called
N'Dama— the only cattle resistant to sleeping
sickness— represent the measure of family wealth.
They are milked but seldom slaughtered and
they have badly overgrazed the grasslands and
even caused deterioration in forest areas. Goats
and sheep increase the damage to vegetation and
soil. We saw demonstration farms planted to
special varieties of rice, citrus and avocado trees,
and citronella grass, and visited the famous
Chevalier botanical garden established fifty years
ago, with fine plantations of pine trees from
Mexico and Burma. We also saw the Strophantus
shrub, whose berries were the source of a curare-
like poison used on arrows in past times; now it
is a respectable medical drug and potentially a
good export u(>i> for Guinea.
On our return trip we stopped near Kindia to
visit the French Institute agricultural station
with its pilot factories for making banana flakes
and powder, pineapple juice and canned pine-
apple, laboratories for studying diseases of pine-
apple and banana, and test plantings of rice,
mangoes, and avocados. The Guinean banana is
small and green and not very attractive to one
brought up on the large yellow Central Ameri-
can fruits, but it is sweet and tasty. It is one of
Guinea's principal exports, but the volume ex-
ported has fallen ofT about 80 per cent in recent
years because of disease and lack of plantation
care. The disease can be readily controlled by
aerial spray but the Guineans who have taken
over the plantations from the former French
owners have not been good managers and have
not felt they could afford to spray by airplane.
The yield is down and many of the hananieres
are rapidly going back to the jungle.
Though the banana has furnished an export
crop, it has increased the agricultural problems
of the country. Banana groves, which require
rich soil and plenty of moisture, occupy the
bottom land along the streams. The only other
soils with much fertility lie on steep mountain-
sides. When the colonists bought the bottom
lands from the village sheiks to make the
hananieres, the native agriculture was forced up
onto the slopes. Under the heavy rainfall of the
area, from 80 to 200 inches within five months
of the year, the soils leach and erode rapidly
when trees are cleared ofT to plant rice and fonio.
The government is doing some replanting of
forest, but not more than 3,000 acres per year,
which doesn't even keep up with current losses.
As long as the farmers must cultivate steep
slopes, there are better ways of doing it, but,
with 1.5 million acres in bad condition, the
growing job of erosion control and reforestation
and land rehabilitation is tremendous and be-
comes greater every day.
It took me about three weeks to find an apart-
ment. I moved in, hired a Malinke "boy-cuisine"
named Sory, and cabled my wife and son to come
running. Guinea includes five major tribes— the
coastal Soussou, the montain Fula, the interior
Malinke and Kissi, and the northern Bagga
groups. Each has its own language, none written.
After twenty years in the V. S. Forest Service,
W. E. BuUard is now working with a Public Health
Service team studying the Columbia River basin
water resources. He is fond of fishing, photography,
stamps, hi-fi, and science fiction.
BY W
BULLARD
71
The Malinke are the blackest of the bhick and
fairly big people. The Fula, who are lighter and
smaller and finer-featured, with many Arabic
rather than Negroid physical traits, are said to
be relatively recent immigrants from the north.
I was told that the Guineans are nearly all
Moslem, though not as strict as the Arabs.
Our apartment was on the top floor, five flights
up, but I was told it would have more breeze and
fewer mosquitoes. The repainting and sealing
for the air conditioner were still going on when
my wife and son arrived. My wife got her in-
troduction to African ways watching the painier
paint the door into the bedroom. The job took
him three days. Then he put in a week painting
the tiny terrace. Perhaps he liked our company.
A French family on the third floor had three
teen-age boys who were amused by my son's
efforts to catch the li/ards in the courtyard. Using
my fly rod and barbless hf)oks, he accumulated a
menagerie of li/ards in little screen cages on our
balcony. There were two species, little brown
skinks and big redheads. My son was a member
of the Philadelphia Herpetological Society and
at the request of members he evcniually sent
about three dozen lizards to the Slates by airmail
in jicrforated coffee cans. Desjiite the five-story
elevation, mosquitoes and midges and flying
cockroaches swarmed into our apartment until
my wife lumg yards of netting over (he louvered
shiutcrs, which helped to sIoav them down a
little. Within a week the netting was red with
dust. In spile of Sory's best efforts at the laundry
tubs, our Avhite tropical clothes weie reddish as
long as we were in Guinea.
Some of the other wildlife was more noxious.
While visiting the local branch of the Pasteur
Institute near Kindia, I found out that the
sjDitting cobras, along with the Gaboon vipers
and mambas, are used for venom extraction.
While we were there a boy about ff)urteen years
old pedaled in on his bicycle with five green
mambas in a cage over the rear u'hecl. Since the
Institute pays 2,000 francs apiece for these snakes,
this wealthy young entrepreneur probably sup-
ports two dozen relatives on his earnings. He
leads an exciting life, but it may not be a long
one; the fast-acting mamba poison can cause
death within ten minutes. Anti-venom for cobra
and viper bites is available in first-aid stations in
many villages, but not for mamba bites since
victims would die before they could get there.
Newcomers to Guinea usually come down with
the African trots within three weeks, but after
a few days' dosing with tummy pills, one gradu-
ally becomes more or less immune. But our son
didn't improve with this home treatment. After
several days I called in a Czech doctor recom-
mended by my forestry counterpart. His verdict
was an acute staph or strep infection of the in-
testines and his prescription stopped the trouble
within two hours.
It is difficult to keep a fourteen-year-old quiet
in bed. A solution to this problem was offered
by a Guinean who came to my office with a baby
genette for sale. This little animal resembled a
slim spotted raccoon and I was assured it would
tame easily, make a nice house pet, and grow to
be no larger than a cat. When I took it out of
my pocket, where it was sleeping peacefully, my
son smiled for the first time in a couple of weeks.
They were soon inseparable and when we left
Guinea, "Marmot" came home with us.
ERASED FROM THE PLAN
TH E much-touted Plan Triennal, or Three
Year Plan, that was to solve gloriously all
of Guinea's problems was to begin July 1, 1960,
ushering in the golden era, with large sums of
money for all sorts of projects. Although more
than half of the budget was for bigger and better
government buildings, our chief for conservation
had been able to include some forest planning
and the building of a sawmill. Late in August,
about five million francs were made available for
a demonstration project in land management and
I Avent out again to Mamou to work with the
district agriculture and forestry officers on plans.
^\'e picked up our project where the French
had left off at the time of Independence. Since
then, streamflow and rainfall records had been
kept in the watershed area— that was all. We
made few changes in the original project plan;
only some increases in crop planting to produce
more food for the local people and their live-
stock. Most of our effort was devoted to de-
termining and scheduling the work, estimating
the amount and cost of the labor, and allocating
money from the meager budget to get it done.
Three weeks after I returned, I learned that
funds had suddenly been withdrawn. Also that
the Guinean project director was being sent to
Israel on a six-months scholarship to study soil-
conservation methods there while the sorely
needed work at home was let go.
At about the same time, I learned that the first
soil and land-use survey strongly recommended
by the Mamou Conference and accepted at that
time by the Guineans was also to be dropped.
The Plan Triennal budget had included in July
an item to cover Guinea's share of the costs (less
72
GUINEAN DIARY
than half the total), but in September it was cut
out because of a shortage of funds. Since the
country was operating on a printing-press cur-
rency, I couldn't understand this argument. Nor
did I believe it, for none of the plans for new
government office buildings were dropped. By
October a small office building for the Ministry
of Production was built, and the site was pre-
pared for the President's new palace.
Meanwhile, a Czech forester sent by Poly-
techna, their technical assistance agency, was
planning the sawmill for the southeastern part
of the country in the last large remaining area—
about 65,000 acres— of good tropical forest timber.
On his first trip down there he did a bit of
timber cruising on the most accessible part of the
area. The forest was about sixty miles from the
nearest town of any size, N'Zerekore, and con-
nected with it by a barely passable road. He
recommended first an aerial survey, next a large-
scale map and timber survey, then the building
of good truck roads, and finally the mill.
A team of Russian expediters was then as-
signed to help him make the proper choices on
sawmill equipment and to advise on location and
layout. Though they were supposedly economists
and plant engineers, their first move was to ask
the government officials where they wanted the
sawmill to be put. The answer was N'Zerekore.
Then they asked what kind of mill was wanted;
the answer was "electric." The Czech forester
pointed out that there was no electricity closer
than about 200 miles from N'Zerekore, and that
a small portable mill located in the forest work
area would be more economic.
He was overruled. The mill would be electric
and would be located in N'Zerekore. A generat-
ing plant would be built to supply both the mill
and the town with electricity. But the first order
of business was to build the mill, and he was
told to determine the best equipment to get. He
finally settled on French equipment designed for
tropical climates and tropical hardwoods. He
nearly created an international incident by re-
fusing to okay the purchase of Russian equip-
ment, pointing out that it wasn't designed for the
situation in Guinea and would be a waste of
money. The Guinean officials finally agreed, but
remained neutral in the discussions. One
Guinean later told him on the side that he
understood the arguments and quite agreed, but
that he didn't dare appear to oppose the Rus-
sians because his president had just gotten a big
loan from Russia.
The Russian advisers went back into the in-
terior for a few weeks more, purportedly for
further "expediting." However, their interpreter
did manage to collect plenty of material for
dictionaries of Soussou and Malink^. The rest of
the team was collecting all sorts of data on the
resources and economy of the country.
These were the only Russians I met there.
However, I met many Czechs— teachers, doctors,
radio and aviation technicians. I liked them all.
Possibly my opinion of them is colored by the
fact that it was a Czech doctor who saved my son
when he was terribly sick, but they appeared to
be well-trained and competent, and I never heard
them discuss politics, local or otherwise. I did
not meet any of their secret police agents who
were said to be responsible for beatings and
murders of Guineans arrested for political devia-
tion. Nor did I want to.
In October Air Guinea began furnishing air
service to the interior, using a fleet of four Rus-
sian two-engined planes, operated by Czechs.
There were one or j;wo other tangible evidences
of Russian or Russian-backed assistance to
Guinea: A powerful radio station to reach all
of West Africa was being built in Conakry; also
a huge printing plant. Czech and East German
merchandise gradually came in to replace French
imports but was not of comparable quality in
most instances. I did not see nor did any of my
acquaintances see the much-publicized Russian-
built roads.
WHERE CAVIAR GOES BEGGING
IN September we rented a house with a garden
and beach front on the north side of the
peninsula, at the end of "Ambassador Row,"
with the Texaco manager on one side of us and
the Air France manager on the other. A week
later our shipment of household goods from the
States, for which we had been waiting four
months, finally arrived.
Life in the new house was pleasant and com-
fortable. The Guineans, however, didn't have it
so nice. Diet for most Guineans is based on rice
and manioc, peppers, chicken, and mutton. The
people were neither interested in nor able to
afford the canned Russian caviar, crabmeat, and
fowl that were unloaded in the government
stores. Only the foreigners benefited from these
things and from the vodka, Polish cheese and
butter, C/ech canned ham, Hungarian Tokay
wine, and Czech and German beer, all very good.
Even had the Guineans been able to afford im-
ports, their currency had no foreign exchange
value. Tile regular supply of fruits and vege-
tables diminished during the rainy season and a
73
lot of people were hungry by October. Our
neighborhood, including our house, had seven
food burglaries in two nights. Signs of the time,
too, were the "boys" who came in a steady proces-
sion, three or four times a day, asking for work.
A shipload of rice from the United States and
another from Vietnam temporarily solved the
food problem, but the government had to send
the army to guard the distribution centers and
control the crowds.
The currency reform in Guinea happened only
a short time before I got there. Originally
Guinea used the French African Community
franc rated at about 245 to the dollar. When the
paper Guinean franc was introduced its value
was declared by the government to be equal to
that of the CFA franc. All other money was
called in and exchanged at the government bank.
The government's issuance of its own money was
a matter of pride, made without the knowledge
of the Guinean Minister of Finance or his UN
finance adviser. It led to a more than creeping
inflation and persuaded many of the French who
had stayed on after Independence to get out.
The banks, like other government and im-
portant business offices, were full of clerks wear-
ing gold-rimmed spectacles. This apparently set
these fortunate people apart from the common
herd— though the spectacles often did not have
lenses. Among the common herd the badge of
higher caste was the motorbike. It didn't seem
to matter Avhether the motor worked or not, and
most of them didn't.
SMUGGLING THE COLD WAR
TH E three American and one French oil
companies serving Guinea had their share
of difficulties. At the beginning of the year they
were asked if they would accept oil and gasoline
from Russian tankers. They reluctantly agreed.
Soon they were being told that more tankers
would be coming in and the company tanks
should be ready for them. When the company
people objected, the government asked them if
they wanted to be accused of sabotage. For a
while they were even looking for beer bottles in
which to store their own product. Since Inde-
pendence the companies had not been paid by
the government for the oil and gas it ordered;
their only local revenue was from sales at their
service stations and these barely covered operat-
ing costs. Expecting nationalization at any mo-
ment, they did only a minimum of maintenance.
From time to time the port of Conakry would
be closed when Iron Curtain ships were in. A
French friend of mine on one occasion saw cases
of arms being unloaded from a Russian ship.
These arms were being shipped to Mali but it
was fairly common knowledge that they were
destined for Algeria and the rebels, to go from
Conakry to Kankan by rail, thence to Bamako in
Mali by truck, and then north across the Sahara,
perhaps by camel.
The government regularly called meetings of
all its workers to discuss all sorts of problems,
only rarely its own. At least one day every two
weeks would be lost to discussions of the situa-
tion in Algeria, or Angola, or South Africa; any-
where but in Guinea. Resolutions adopted at
these meetings were read over the local radio and
published in the Bulletin Qiiotidien, a mimeo-
graphed Ministry of Information booklet which
was Guinea's only daily newspaper. It carried
all the official gospel according to the Party.
The government had two main problems with
its people: unemployment and hunger. While
some token effort was made to meet these prob-
lems, much more went into trying to divert the
people's attention. The infamous "complot"
business in April 1960 was an example. One
government officer, an honest conservative, sug-
gested to the top Party peo]:)le that to be truly
democratic Guinea should have two parties, ex-
plaining that there might be different ways to
attain the public good. The Party officials pro-
76
GUINEAN DIARY
Guinean government. Though the government
officially expressed gratitude for this help, it did
not make much use of it. I got the impression
(luring mv seven-month stay that they liked to
have the UN people there just to push around.
For example, the finance expert tried vainly
to get an appointment with the ministry officials
with whom he was supposed to work. Finally the
Minister of Finance called the UN office and
asked when they were going to make the prom-
ised finance expert available. The Minister was
informed that the expert had been occupying an
office in the ministry, and had been trying to see
him for three months, but even after this, the
expert was not given anything to do. Eventually
he was released from his contract after seven
months of boredom. The Ministry of Public
Health seemed to be the only branch of the
government that was seriously interested in get-
ting more experts in to help.
As the Congo business dragged on and got
worse, the official attitude toward the UN became
less and less good. Invitations to the UN staff to
attend official functions dropped off practically
to zero. The Resident Representative was called
upon only to receive blunt demands and to de-
liver reprimands to headquarters. In 1959, UN
Day, October 24th, had been a gala holiday in
Guinea. In 1960 the Resident Representative
received a curt note from the government saying
that because of the UN's imperialistic repression
of their brothers in the Congo Guinea would not
celebrate UN Day.
INCLUDED OUT
MY contract called for me to work primarily
in training the Guincans in administra-
tive procedures. This was something sorely
needed, as before Independence they had had
little or no such training. They refused, how-
ever, to let me do it, saying that they had changed
their policy. They said they were glad to have
me as a consultant, but even in that capacity
called on me only 20 per cent of the time.
The first couple of months I was able to make
my own work but soon ran out of that. 1, loo,
became bored and watued to get out. The French
officials formerly in charge had outlined many
excellent projects in forestry and land manage-
ment; there was little 1 could add other than my
blessing. And little I could do beyond giving a
push now and then and instilling some con-
fidence into the Ciuineans.
Ii wasn't lr)ng before the govcrrunent began
negotiations with the UN office to have inc re-
placed. It took two months for the news to reach
me, but one day I was told that I was to be trans-
ferred in about two weeks, and then came orders
to leave Guinea by the end of the month. It was
clear that I was not being transferred, but "in-
cluded out." Some of the reasons given by the
government were that I was too "American," that
I couldn't communicate, and that I did too much
politicking. I was hard put to match up those
last two items. However, I was heartened by the
fact that UN offered me two other missions.
It was hard for me to say good-by to my
associates in the Rivers and Forests Service; I had
developed a real affection for them all. Our fare-
well to Sory was emotion-packed. He had become
practically a member of the family. When we
left for the airport, Sory gave me an envelope
addressed simply "Mon Patron." Inside was a
note laboriously scrawled in French, thanking us
for our kindness to him and wishing us a pleas-
ant trip home. Illiterate himself, he had paid a
local scribe to do th5 note for him.
EPILOGUE
ACCORDING to letters that I have re-
ceived from Guinea since my return, the UN is
finished there, too. On February 22, 1961, the
government ordered the Resident Representative
and his staff out of the country. They were given
only a couple of days* grace, though the secre-
tary, a Swiss girl, was allowed to stay on three
extra weeks to wind up business. A geologist on
the staff, away from Conakry at the time of the
expulsion order, was promptly arrested on his
return for "resisting government orders" but was
released the next day. It took him four days to
get reservations on the airlines for himself and
his family, and the government wotdd not permit
him to convert any of his Guinean francs to a
currency useful elsewhere.
The final and most unexpected occurrence in
this confused tragicomedy was the delivery of a
notice of deposit of several hundred thousand
francs in the government bank. This arrived on
the last day that the secretary was there, and was
the government's regular payment for support
of the UN office. To be sure, the Ministry of Public
Health had insisted that the two UN public-
health experts stay in Guinea, but the Ministry
of State declared that all must go. Somebody
merely forgot to notify the Ministry of Finance.
Well, when and if the UN does go back to
Guinea, it may find it alieady has an operating
account at the liank, but no one will know whose
signature is authorized to use it.
lldrfx-r's Ahigazitic, December 1961
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A BLOCKED FEED
Story by NIGEL DENNIS
I AM the sort of man that likes to do things
-^ jjroperly— I would never, loi example, say
"the sort of man rclio likes to do things prop-
erly," because "who" would not be jjroper gram-
mar. I am the same in the practical as I am in
the grammatical: I behave properly myself and
expect others to behave properly too. In the
matter of motoring, for instance, I look after my
car j)roperly: I drive it properly; I signal prop-
erly. When I go abroad with my car, I do so
proj)erly: I get the proper documents and make
sure I have the proper spare parts; I also stndy
the proper languages and plan, many weeks
ahead, the proper routes. Nothing so upsets my
feeling of what's proper as to run into another
Englishman who has not taken the proper steps
and who, by getting into a ridiculous mess, makes
us all look like proper fools in Continental eyes.
Now, last December, I had to take my car to
France, landing at one of their Channel ports.
Let me start by saying that these ports are not
proper ports at all. Southampton and New York
are proper ports, but these French places are
just nondescript little termini where packet
boats from England touch and turn around— just
strips of shabby marine pavement alongside a
dirty stretch of what only a fool would call the
proper sea. Of course, they have famous old
names— but what's the good of that, if there's
nothing behind it? Land at one of these places
and you'll see what I mean. Tliere's one huge
brown building with a railway station, a customs,
and some cranes. Walk through it and come out
on the landward side— what d'you see? Nothing!
The bombs of two wars have swept away all
the old houses and winding streets. Stare to the
soiuh as far as you can, and all you'll see is a
desert of old foundations and dead grass, stretch-
ing empty to an horizon where an ugly brown
church spire marks the beginning of the town
as it is today. At your feet is a roundabout, with
a pale-blue sign on it saying TOUTES DL
RECTIONS; and out from it a single wide road
runs dead straight to the brown spire two miles
oflf, inviting you to make the fastest-possible get-
away. And between you and that spire there's
not a living or domestic thing— not a man, not a
cow, not a dwelling, not a bistro— only the dirty
old grass fighting with the old foundations.
You don't notice it so much in summer. The
grass grows greener and hides the old stones. The
sun shines on the desert and mystifies it. A blue
sky rises behind the brown spire. The cars come
swinging up from the hold of the packet boat, all
bright colors and full of girls in sunny dresses;
off they go round the roundabout and down the
long load, headed in toxitcs directions— a. line of
sunny colors bound in a queue for Spain, Switzer-
land, Italy, Holland— for it's all one road, to start
with. But in December— how different! Only
the gray desert, the empty gray road, the gloomy
brown spire and the gray sky behind it.
80
A BLOCKED FEED
There was only one motorist other than my-
self, and I was pleased to see, as the crane wound
up his car, that it was properly looked after— a
real specimen of proper attention. I saw the
driver, verv properly dressed, climb in and drive
awav up the ramp to the roundabout; and then
the crane sAvung over the hold again lor my small
saloon. .\nd that was that! Suddenly, everything
stopped. Hook and cradle hung over the hold,
swinging a little in the gray air. Something had
broken.
When you yourself have done everything ]:)rop-
crlv, \vhal more maddening than the faults of
others! I chased after half-a-do/en fellows on the
dock, but it was no use; they just made evasive
ansAvers and sneaked off into dark holes. The
station clock struck— and I understood. Not only
had the crane broken down but the lunch hour
had begun. Well, an old traveler like me knows
when patience is the only proper answer. He
knows that only an idiot would ask Frenchmen
to rcjiair a crane during Itmch time.
I walked up the dirty ramp, the damp climbing
up into my ankles. I couldn't help cursing the
lucky fellow who'd got away before the crane
broke; in fact, I almost hated him. So, imagine
mv smprise Avhen he was the first thing I saw on
gc tting to the toj). There he was, standing beside
his car, carrying a disjjatch case and a tidily
folded raincoat, and staring out over the desert
toAvard the brown sjjire. Something wrong?
I^amp ])lugs? A blocked feed?
Hearing my steps, he tinned, looked me up
and down and then walked up to me— a very
neat-looking chap, but a bit prim in the face
and rather on the short side. He said to me, in a
very clear and correct voice; "Excuse me. Sir!
I am Sir Orleton Hampshire's man. Could you
direct me to the town of Villey?"
"Certainly." I said. "\()u follow the coast road
and turn inland a few miles short of Calais. I
think you'll find that's right."
I added that last sentence because I knew I
was right, and it's only proper to sound wrong
when one is right.
"It is exactly right, Sir," said the valet. He
raised the dispatch case slightly and nodding his
hc;i(! at it, added; "Villey is so placed in my in-
structions."
Nigel Dennis, author of "Cards of Identity"
and other not els and plays, spent fifteen years in the
( .S. and is nnn had. home in Enp,land. His dramatic
crilirism appears refiiilarly in 'Encounter" and his
neu play. "'August for the People," was performed at
the recent Edinburgh Festival.
This rather amused me, because, from the way
the fellow said it, Villey would be fluttering all
over the map like a butterfly had not Sir Orleton
Hampshire firmly pinned it down. But 1 just
said cheerfully, "Well, you'll find the Calais
road signposted very soon. Is this your first trip
abroad?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Well, don't worry. Don't get tense."
He waits a minute to see if I have anything
more to say, then gives me a little bow and a
polite "Thank you" and walks back to his
master's car— a trim little shooting-brake with
some expensive pieces of pigskin luggage in it.
He is about to get in Avhen he pauses, and I see
him staring, eyebrows drawn together, at some-
thing on the roundabout. Then he swings
round and comes back to me— and being a bit
embarrassed, he struts a bit, like a little Crown
Prince. "Excuse me troubling you again, Sir," he
says, "and I don't mean to be tense or Avorried
—but I'm going toward Calais."
"Why, so you said."
"I mean. Sir— I can't just drive nnyxoherc."
"My good man," I answer, a little tartly,
"who's asking you to drive anyivheref"
"It's that sign. Sir"— and he points a slightly
trembling finger at TOUTES DIRECTIONS.
"It just doesn't tell me anything. It doesn't make
sense. Why, if it wasn't official, I'd think it Avas
a joke!"
IS E E his point, because the first time / saAv
TOUTES DIRECTIONS, it bothered me,
too. In England, when there's just one road
and it's a case of ONE WAY ONLY— why, that's
what we say; we'd never dream of putting it all
in the plural and saying TO EVERYWHERE.
That's a difference betAveen us and the French;
we stick to one point or one fact, Avhile they go
all out for some o\'er-all idea; they're simply not
happy if they're not inflating sinall facts into
big ideas. What's more, this valet is much the
same sort of chap as I am. He likes to do things
properly. Sir Orleton Hampshire has trained
him like a sheep dog. He Avants a directive
saying; TO CALAIS— properly. But I am si ill
looking for words to explain why there isn't one
Avhen the valet says, in a nervous voice; "Sir
Orleton is a very exact gentleman, Sir. When he
says: '^'ou'll meet me Avith the luggage, Fraser,
in Villey, at .S;8()'— a\c11. Sir, that means slunp!"
"NoAv, look here, my man," I say— taking this
hard tone deliberately, for his sake, "ilo as I tell
you and aou'H be at V^illey in bags of time. It
(an'i be more than thiny(i\c miles."
A STORY BY NIGEL DENNIS
81
"It is thirty-two and a half, Sir," says the
valet, lifting the dispatch case as before. "It is
so in my instructions."
"Very well! Off you go! Before you get to that
spire there, you'll find a signpost that'll turn
you off to Calais."
"Oh, very good, Sir," he says, sounding rather
relieved. Then, he glances at TOUTES DIREC-
TIONS and his worried expression comes back.
He shakes his head almost in anger and says:
"The chap who thought that up must have been
crazy. Sir. Who can drive in all directions?
'You'll take the Calais road,' Sir Orleton said.
It's here, in my instructions."
"This js the Calais road. Eraser! It's all the
roads. One direction, oil directions— it comes to
the same thing. See?"
"Very well, Sir; thank you," he says— but as he
walks slowly back to his car, I can almost hear
him repeating to himself: "One direction means
the same as all directions- like hell it does!" One
hand on the car door, he pauses and looks at
his watch, and a tortured look comes over his
face. He stares longingly over the gray desert
toward the far brown spire. He stares intensely
at TOUTES DIRECTIONS-as if by staring
long enough he will find its secret. At last,
ashamed but obstinate, he calls to me: "If you
don't mind. Sir, I'll check up with one of the
local chaps"— and off he hurries into the big
brown building.
Poor imbecile! I must say, there's something
very decent about his determination to do the
thing properly. And I must confess frankly that
all we people who insist on doing things prop-
erly get into this sort of mess from time to time.
We get our brains so bent on finding the proper
way that we can't free them in an emergency.
We seize upon one thing, so we can't grasp
other things. Meanwhile, the Erench are grasping
everything and dismissing one thing after an-
other. You can see how the clash is likely to
come.
Out comes the valet. He's followed by a porter
in a blue blouse, eating bread and cheese. "I
wish to know the Calais road," says the valet. His
French is like mine— quite proper, but a bit
stiff. The porter points straight down the long
gray road. In an explosion of cheese, he replies
cheerily: "Toxitcs directions!"
The valet sidesteps the cheese bits and re-
torts: "Not all directions! I desire only one."
"Toutes directions!" cries the porter, waving
his arms and blowing his cheese to all points of
the compass: "Barcelona! Morocco! Rome! Co-
lombey des Deux Eglises! Toutes!"
"I say, not toutes!" barks the valet. "I say,
Calais alone! Calais!"
"So th&re— toutes, toutes, toutes!" the porter
hoots.
"C2i\2L\s—seul, seul, seul!" hisses the valet.
They stare at each other fiercely. At last, the
porter gives one of those irremediable French
shrugs and stalks back into the building, chew-
ing hard. The valet hesitates— and then stalks in
behind him.
TH I S is just the sort of scene I dread in
a foreign country. I stand there on the
gray concrete, a cold wind blowing through
the gray air, and reflect on the awfulness of a
mental block. Is it terror— in this case, of Sir
Orleton Hampshire— that drops some hard little
object into the brain and jams the machinery?
Is it a determination to do everything absolutely
properly, particularly when abroad for the first
time? Is it a sort of homesickness— a vearninf^
for signs saying simply STOKE-UNDER-RISH-
OP 41/2? But I have hardly put these questions
when, to my astonishment, a rackety noise comes
up from the dock— and there, swinging over the
brown building in a French cradle of old
floor boards and winter underwear, is my own
spotless little motorcar! Salvation! I hurry down
the greasy ramp and find the officials, distracted
from their lunch, chalking my luggage at top
speed. Next minute, I'm at the wheel— no feel-
ing in the world like it: all the instruments
working properly, the leather polished properly,
the motor a perfect joy to the ear. Off I whistle
up the ramp.
At the top, everything's just as I left it— the
open gray desert, the toffee spire, the dead
horizon. Sir Orleton's shining shooting-brake—
and TOUTES DIRECTIONS in its cold,
French pale blue. But just as I drive into the
picture from one side, my countryman, the valet,
shoots into it from the other, popping smartly
out of the brown building. He is followed by no
less than five Frenchmen, crossly brushing off
crumbs. Get out fast, if you don't want to be in-
volved, I tell myself. But my conscience is too
proper. It won't have it. You damn well stay
and help the little perisher, it says; you know
your proper duty. And some duty it's going to
be, I can see that. For the valet's face is as pale
and brave as was any Briton's at Dunkirk. The
French spent hundreds of years getting his an-
cestors out of Calais; getting the valet into Calais
will be just as difficult.
The five chaps he's conscripted are all officials.
The senior man is one of those stout French
82
A BLOCKED FEED
types they always choose to head a bureau, and
he's trying to make the other four shut up, so
that he can deal with the valet soberly and
rationally. That's the French all over: there are
no mental blocks in their world and no psycho-
logical considerations; a man is either intelligent
or an idiot, as they see it. But it's a long business,
shutting up the other four, who are all pointing
sharply at the toffee spire and exclaiming,
"Toiitcs, toutcs!"—:ind of course the porter has
to come running out, too, and tell everyone that
he's gone through all this already with the
valet; even porters are proud of being rational,
in France.
Well, there's silence at last, and the senior
man bends to his work. You know what these
rational arguers are like: they start their argu-
ment about six clauses behind the point and
then grope forward, handhold by handhold,
until they're onto it— proper logic, I don't doubt,
but dreary to listen to. Anyway, this logician,
looking the valet tightly in the eye, starts off by
saying: "Now. monsieur! You are an intelligent
man, are you not?"
The valet has his answer ready. He says un-
hesitatingly: "I am the man of Sir Orleton
Hampshire"— "/e siiis le homme de Sir Orleton
'Ampshire."
This singular reply comes as a blow to the
logician. He finds it as meaningless as the valet
finds TOUTES DIRECTIONS. But like all
these logical fellows, he knows that if he stops
to argue he may derail his whole precious train
of thought and never get it back on the tracks
again; so he just looks the valet even tighter in
the eye and says: "Very well! But in addition to
being that— whatever that
may be— you are also a man
of intelligence?"
The valet thinks this over.
Either he smells a foreign
trap, or he thinks that al-
legiance to Sir Orleton is
quite enough; it were boast-
ful to claim intelligence as
well. But at last he says:
"Qui," very sourly.
The five Frenchmen cheer
this reply, because it is the
correct reply; they don't care
a scrap if it's true or not— a
very characteristic weakness
of the French. So the logi-
cian presses on. "And you,
tin's intelligent man, are also
blessed with normal visi-
bility?" he asks.
"Oui," says the valet, glancing at his watch.
"Excellent!" cries the logician. "Thus, you are
able to see this sign that is placed here?" He
indicates TOUTES DIRECTIONS.
"]e siiis," replies the valet, his voice hard-
ening.
"So now," exclaims the logician, "what words
do you, an intelligent man of normal visibility,
see written upon that sign?"
The valet sets his teeth. In a tone of gentle,
patient despair, he answers: "Sir! I beg you to
tell me the way to Calais."
"But, Sir, I am doing so!" cries the logician
tensely. "Only answer me! What words, what
words?"
""Words, nothing!" the valet cries in a trem-
bling voice. "I want the road!"
"One minute, and we shall reach the road,"
cries the logician. "We shall reach it when its
turn comes."
"My own words to him!" the porter shouts
triumphantly. "You'lf see the road when the
turn comes. I said it five times."
"Oh, hold your tongue!" snaps the logician.
"You are as stupid as he is! . . . Now, Sir, you,
you intelligent man— does not this sign here
proclaim TOUTES DIRECTIONS?"
"Nonsense!" cries the valet— and suddenly,
holding up his watch for all to see, he shouts
almost in terror: "I must, I must arrive in Villey
at 3:30! Where is the road to Calais?"
It is too much for the other five Frenchmen.
With one movement they stab their arms at the
thrown spire and then turn on the valet like a
pack of hounds. "It's here, it's there— can't you
see?" they scream. They stare passionately into
his eyes. They take his lapels
and pinch them in their
finger tips. "All directions
are there!" they insist. "All
must be there! All can oiily
be there! Toutes! Toutes!"
Then they all fall silent sud-
denly, staring to see if their
last desperate toutes have
penetrated. At which the
porter steps in breezily and
says: "Why, it's even the way
to Algeria!"
That clinches it! "Algeria,
eh?" says the valet slowly.
His teeth show. He turns on
his tormentors with a mad,
ugly look.
This is my moment. "Now
then. Eraser!" I say, march-
ing up. "We'll have no
03
rough stuff, please! Remember, my man, this is a
foreign country!"
They are all so taken by surprise that nobody
says a word. So I plug straight on. "Now, look
here, Fraser," I say, "I'm sure you're sick and
tired of all this nonsense. Very well! I'm going
to\vard Calais, too. I'll lead and you fall in be-
hind me."
The logician understands. His cold expression
tells me that he regards my suggestion as a very
vulgar solution to an intellectual problem; he
is a fly-fisher and I am coming forward with a
worm. But he's past caring; anything that will
take this blockhead off his hands will be wel-
come. "So there you are," he says to the valet.
"No problem any more! Everyone happy!" He
claps the valet lightly on the back, as if to add:
"Do go to hell, my good imbecile, and with all
dispatch."
The other Frenchmen smile and say: "Every-
one happy!" Then they, too, clap the valet
lightly on the back.
Poor wretch! He is all in a sweat. He
looks at his watch. He looks, with horror,
at TOUTES DIRECTIONS. Then, with an
agonizing flash of longing, he stares over the
desert to the brown spire— like a man staring
across the empty hopelessness of his own mind
to a distant promise of salvation. He needs just
one more nudge to move him— but it must be
the proper nudge. Say something wrong, and
Iie'll freeze up worse than ever.
I glance at my watch. I say cheerfully: "Villey
at 3:30? Why, we'll just make it nicely!" And
^\'ith a smile, I walk off to my car.
I can feel the tension behind my back. But
nobody speaks. Then, I hear a long-drawn
breath of relief— and the door of the shooting-
brake opening and closing. I get one glimpse of
the valet's face behind the wheel. It is that of a
man about to commit an atrocious crime, a sheep
dog about to betray his master.
I move forward. "Bon voyage!" cries the lo-
gician. "Boji voyage!" cry the other five French-
men. Why, damn my eyes; they're getting the
giggles! Even the logician, the head of a bureau,
is having to hold his stomach. The shame of it
makes me blush dark red. The valet, however,
is chalk white. What a pair of proper donkeys
we must look!
I turn into the roundabout, saying to myself:
"Steady, now! Do it properly!" I move slowly,
watching the valet in my driving mirror. But the
closer we get to TOUTES DIRECTIONS, the
slower he moves. It's getting him again! An-
other second, and he'll be back in the old block.
A STORY BY NIGEL DENNIS
Come on, I tell myself! Shock tactics! And down
goes my foot on the accelerator.
It works! Unblocked by sheer astonishment,
the valet puts his foot down too— and we're off
round that roundabout like two terriers. Be-
hind, the noise is unspeakable— howls of laugh-
ter mixed up with what sounds like warning
cries. Never mind! I've pulled it off! We're
away now, and running full tilt down that long
road TO EVERYWHERE. The desert flies
past on either side. The brou'n spire gets bigger
and bigger; it runs forward, looming, to meet
us. I feel proud of myself and begin to whistle.
Next minute, up pops a sign as big as a billiards
table, with CALAIS spread all over it. And turn-
ing out of it, toward us, a lorry as big as a
house.
I catch on just in time. Owing to all the
excitement, I have forgotten where I am. I am
driving on the left-hand side of the road instead
of the right. I swing hard over, and brake. The
valet, still firmly on the left, whizzes past me
like a shell. I hear a nasty crunching noise and
feel a big bump. I shut my eyes.
WHEN I open them again, the lorry
and I are both stationary, with one
side of his radiator sitting on one side of mine.
The shooting-brake, which must have passed
neatly between us before the gap closed, is just
visible, tearing down the Calais road to its
knightly rendezvous. I'm sure the valet will just
make it nicely.
The lorry driver is an extremely good fellow
—a happy-go-lucky type. My saloon has been
dented rather badly, but his lorry has done the
job without so much as a scrape to itself. "You
must drive properly in France," he tells me in
the most friendly way. "You're not in England
now." I start explaining how properly I always
drive, but he tells me I am suffering from shock.
We drive together into the shadow of the brown
spire, where there's a friendly bistro with a
useful garage adjoining. After three cognacs, I
explain about TOUTES DIRECTIONS. I point
earnestly across the gray desert. I ^\'ave my arm
toward the sea. "When the mind fixes upon
one point, it caimot embrace all points," I ex-
plain. They have no idea what I am talking
about. "All this must be a great shock to you,"
says the proprietor, pouring me a fourth cognac.
"It is," I answer, "because I am the sort of man
that always does things properly." All I re-
member after that is everybody's mouth hanging
wide open— as if the whole world had burst out
laughing.
Harper's Magazine, December 1961
8'> £?
&: PERSONAL
WILLIAM S. WHITE
How to Put Kennedy Back in the Senate
Unless we change our present way
of discarding used Presidents, JFK
inevitably will have to join the most
singular, honored — and futile — club in
the ivorld.
WASHINGTON -It is long past
lime to re-examine and then to end
the cruelty and waste of our national
habit of casting ex-Prcsidents of the
United States aside like so many
crumbled-up and used papers adrift
in the winds of history.
Our practice of treating our former
leaders as redundant men from the
moment they leave the White House
door has always been both callous
and stupid. Foreign observers marvel
at this prodigal junking of human
and political resources; for no other
civilized power throws its former
Heads of State into the dustbin. This
story, of course, is an old one; there
is nothing "new" in the fact that our
political system has no room for the
sages and chieftains of yesterday.
New national circumstances, how-
ever, have raised the question from
one of academic consideration to one
of imperative action. First of all, we
now have three living former Presi-
dents. There is Herbert Hoover, so
long immured in the Waldorf
Towers in New York. There is Harry
S. Truman, the frequent And often
lonely (ommuier from his memorial
library in Independence, Missouri,
to the New York home of his daugh-
ter and grandchildren. There is
Dwight D. Eisenhower, who is al-
leady finding that even the best
stocked farm in Gettysburg is alto-
gether too pastoral and tame for a
man Avho has lately been at the
violent center of the controlling
events of our times.
And there is also the distinct pros-
j)ect that before less than eight years
at most have passed, the singular dub
of Former Presidents of the United
Slates may iiumber four members,
with the election thereto of John F.
Kennedy.
More important than all this, how-
ever, is the demonstrable truth that
we can no longer afford to do with-
out the continuous and creative serv-
ices of every man who was ever big
enough to be chosen by the people
of the United States to the most
powerful and responsible office in
the world. Put aside, if you will, all
sentiment. Wave away the obvious
fact that decency forbids us any
longer to pass a sentence of sudden
death on the public lives of such
men. Uook at it with complete "real-
ism," and the truth is still the same:
We now live in the kind of world
in which elementary prudence tells
us never lo put into the discard any
force, any symbol, any person, capa-
ble of contributing in any way to
the maintenance of a sense of con-
tinuity, unity, and fellowship within
the United .States.
Ex-Presidents aie si ill members of
the human race. And, being human,
not even they are immune from that
form of temptation which is ex-
pressed in the saying that the Devil
finds work for idle hands. I do not,
of course, suggest that the august
and decent— and profoundly unlucky
—Mr. Herbert Hoover has ever
heeded Satanic calls. I do suggest,
however, that nearly thirty years of
what amounts, in the public sense, to
a kind of opident house arrest has
led the old gentleman upon a few
occasions to enter almost surrepti-
tiously, and thus testily and harm-
fidly, into great public issues in tones
uncharacteristic of his deeply re-
sponsible and compassionate mind.
NOT THROTTLED, BUT . . .
I D O not intimate, of course, that
Mr. Harry Truman has been wholly
throttled in the eight years since he
put down, with an endearing mix-
tune of pride and cussedness and
unterrified ^lan, the burdens of that
old mansion at 1600 Pennsylvania
Avenue. But Mr. Truman— who hap-
pens to be close to my own notion of
a great President, notwithstanding
the spectacular small flaws of hfs
tenure— has not in those eight years
been on every occasion at his best.
Again, this is because our system
gives no room, no workplace, for this
extraordinarily creative public man.
Confine a man against his will and
against common sense, and it is not
merely his own services that are lost
to the national community. Some-
times, and quite understandably, his
own head is lost in the process— by
him. For a politician Mr. Truman
still is. So is Mr. Hoover in his way,
and even General Eisenhower, if in a
very different way. And not one of
them ceased to be a politician simply
when and because he ceased to be a
President. Allow a politician no
formal and adequate forum and he
must find whatever forum he can.
The fact that Mr. Truman is not
and never was a really good politi-
cian, but only a brilliant President
who very largely saved the destiny of
the Western world, does not and
cannot alter yet another fact: Mr.
Truman rightly considers that a
politician is a politician until he
dies. So you can't take him, or either
of his fellow club members, entirely
out of the game without denying
him his reason for being.
Again, I do not wish to imply that
General Eisenhower, who is the most
relaxed of these three distinguished
gentlemen, has been any kind of
troublemaker from the front porch
at Gettysburg. Still, the fact remains
that, like Mr. Hoover and Mr.
Truman, his own splendid intern-
ment in Pennsylvania has had some
of the aspects also of interment, as
to the great questions of the day.
And this has done nobody any good,
except possibly our enemies.
As I write this column, for illustra-
tion, the present President of the
United States, Mr. Kennedy, has
been caused grave concern by one
strictly uncharacteristic Eisenhower
action. In a speech in the Middle
West, the General sharply rocked
our foreign-policy boat, specifically
over the Berlin crisis, which up to
that point he had generously and
wisely helped to keep upright. Sub-
sequently, he returned to his old
splendid attitude of helping, not
Iiarassing, his successor. All the same,
some damage was done.
I am convinced that General
Eisenhower lashed out on this oc-
casion not from malice and not from
conscious partisanship. I think he
acted as he did, out-of-character, for
very human reasons. He had long
sat and watched from afar the harsh
burdens being placed upon his
young successor over an issue so long
and so keenly familiar to him. He
thought this thing and that thing
were being wrongly done. I suggest
that he was feeling left out of it, and
that he selected a Chicago political
rally to say things which he never
would have said if he had had a
place of dignity and status from
which to speak in a calm and studied
way.
For at the heart of the whole dis-
cussion is this: No man ever honored
by the people of this country with the
Presidency is ever even remotely con-
trolled, in my opinion, by mere
partisan motives in any crucial inter-
national issue. Any man who has
held the Presidency knows poign-
antly the immensity of the stakes,
the brutality of the pressures and
counterpressures on that office, the
Twesome nature of the secret infor-
mation available to a President
alone, when war-or-peace is on the
agenda.
Moreover, the three present mem-
bers of this club are bound in a
Help
means
life
itself
Park In Sun, Korean, age 5.
Parents refugees from north.
Father now dead. Two other
children. Family lives in
shack. Mother earns $3.00
per month. Child always hun-
gry, sad. Has no clothes for
Korean winter. Situation des-
perate. Mother despairing.
Help to Sun means life to
whole family. Will keep fam-
ily unit together. Help urgent.
You or your {jroup can become a Foster Parent of a needy child. You will bo sent the
case history and photo of your "adopted" chihl and letters from the child himself. (Cor-
respondence is translated by Plan. The child knows who you are. At once he is touched by
love and a sense of belonging. Your pledge provides new clothing, blankets, food packages,
education and medical care, as well as a cash grant of $8.00 every month. Each <hil(l
receives full measure of material aid from your contribution. Distribution of goods is
supervised by Plan staff and is insured against loss in every country where Plan operates.
Help in the responsible way. "Adopt" a child through Foster Parents' Plan. Let
some child love you.
Plan is non-political, non-profit, non-sectarian, government-approved independent rc'icf
organization, registered under No. VFA019 with the Advisory Committee on Yolimtary
Foreign Aid of the United States Government and filed with the National Information
Bureau in New York City. We eagerly offer our financial statement on request because
we are so proud of the handling of our funds. Plan helps children in France, Italy,
Greece, South Korea, Viet Nam, Hong Kong and the Philippines.
© 1961 FPP, Inc.
l" "^ ^^ ^^ ^^ ^^ ^^ ^^ ^^ ^^ "^ "— "^~ ^^ ^"" ^^ ^^ ^^ ^^ ^^ ^^ ^^ ^^ "^ ^^ ^^ "■■^ "^ ■■"■ ^^ ^"^ ^»
352 PARK AVENUE SOUTH, NEW YORK 10, N. Y. • FOUNDED 1937
MRS. JOHN F. KENNEDY, Chairman 25th Anniversary Campaign |
PARTIAL LIST of SPONSORS
and FOSTER PARENTS
Steve Allen
Bing Crosby
K. C. Gifford
Helen Hayes
Dr. John Haynes Holmes
Charles R. Hook
C. D. Jackson
Gov. & Mrs. Walter Kohler
Garry Moore
Edward R. Murrow
Mary Pickford
Dr. Howard A. Rusk
Mr. and Mrs.
Robert W. Sarnoff
FOSTER PARENTS' PLAN, INC. H-12-61
352 Pork Avenue South, New York 10, N. Y.
In Canada: P.O. Box 65, Sta. B, Montreal, Que.
A. I wish to become a Foster Parent of a needy child for one
year or more. If possible, sex , age ,
nationality
I will pay $15 a month for one year or more ($180 per year).
Payment will be monthly □, quarterly □, semi-annu-
dly Q, yearly □.
I enclose herewith my first payment $
B. I cannot "adopt" a child, but I would like to help a child
by contributing $
Name
Address
city Zone State
Date Contributions are Income Tax deductible.
86
uni(]uc wav to tlic prospective fourth
member. Mr. Kciinedx, into an
una\()i(lal)le ( nmradcshi)). even \vlien
there is ahsohiteh no lechng of ])er-
sonal (omradesliip. Thev all kno^v
thai :it times in an\' rorei2;n crisis anv
Prrsiclenl is :i man alone and besie<];cd
— ])esieged l)v hostile ( riiics within liis
own ])ai t\', besicpjed bv "experts" ^vho
tell him daih' ho^v Avrons;; he is as seen
Irom that hai:)]3v jjosition held by all
lis (ommentators.
We are free to cry for this or that
action Aviihoiit bearing the slightest
resjionsibility for its failure. In mo-
ments such as these, any President
couldn't care less who is a Democrat
and \\ho a Rejiublican, or even w'ho
A\as "for" him before he went to his
first national convention to seek
his first nomination. The objects of
his dearest afTection then are simply
those who at best are symjiatheiically
imderstanding and at ^vorst keep
their advice to themselves.
THEY
DON T KNOW
OLD soldiers at di\ision reiuiions
w ill go on foiever saving, of war, that
"i hex "—the civilians— just don't
kiunv what it was like. Old Presi-
dents, who ha\e no reunions among
themselves, xvill nevertheless say
much the same thing of the office.
Any old soldier will testify that no-
body can ever be quite so blood-
thirsty as the civilian or amateur
soldier. And any ex-President, though
to a point he had been by definition
the leading partisan of his time, will
find that it is the amateur partisans
who turn his blood cold about for-
eign policy. For no President or ex-
President truly gives a damn about
partisanship in these matters, and
still less about partisans. For in the
hours of foreign crisis he is the Presi-
dent of all the United States, and is
most somberly aware of it.
I am, for illustration, in position
to utter a very strong suspicion that
there have been moments, over the
menace of Berlin, in which John F.
Kennedy was considerably more
I^leased to see, say. Senator Everett
-McKinley Dirksen of Illinois, the Re-
publican Senate leader, than to see
Senator J. William Fulbright of
Arkansas, the Democratic chairman
of the Foreign Relations Committee.
Mr. Kennedy is well aware that one
is a Republican tlieojetitally dedi-
PUBLIC & PERSONAL
cated to his partisan destruction and
that the other is a Democrat theoret-
ically dedicated to making a fine
(loxver of success of tlic Kennedy Ad-
ministration. But Diiksen, oAving the
President nothing, tended simjjly to
relax and just go along as far as he
coidd. Fulbright. oxving the Presi-
dent much, (ended sometimes to try
to help much too much, bv public
or private suggestions that his o^vn
foreign policies xvere su])erior to
those of the Piesitlent.
Partisan friends are fine- on par-
tisan matters. Bin thev can be incon-
venient and irksome friends when a
President's problem is international
in scope and thus requires the very
opposite of partisanship in its solu-
tion. It is not so much explaining
away Avhat xour official adversaries
say that is difficult; it is explaining
away the coimnents of yoiu" friends.
Thus, the central truth is that it
is the Ihiited States, and not any
political |)arty, ^\•hich needs the serv-
ices, in places of proper prestige and
contimu'tv, of all those who have
served as President. Thev might ^\•ell
be superfiuous Avhen domestic issues
are oin- main concerns. But they are
indispensable when national secur-
ity, in its highest and literal sense, is
our one concern.
NOT BEHOLDEN
HOW, then, can thev thus serve in
honor and in dignitv? The answ^er
has often been suggested. But it is
suggested urgently now because of all
the circumstances here outlined. It is
to put them into the Senate as life
members, representing no state and
no party, and given all the rights and
perquisites of membership save the
final right to vote, either in commit-
tee or on the floor or on those occa-
sions when party control of the
Senate is being established.
I am told on very high legal au-
thority that all this could be ar-
ranged without a Constitutional
amendment and even without pass-
ing a single bill. It would only be
necessary for the Senate itself to
amend its own rules, of which it is
master, subject to no other authority
whatever, just as it is solely the judge
of its own members.
What, then, would these ex-Presi-
dents do in the .Senate? They could
and would do a very great deal. They
coidd participate in debate. They
could give younger and moie excit-
able colleagues the benefit of much
xvisdom. They coidd ;\ax and floui ish
in two of the most important of all
Senate functions— making propa-
ganda by educating the pid)lic, and
offering the counsel of sages. There
is an aspect of the Senate, indeed, for
Ashich they might fairly be said to
have been inxenied. For the Senate
was deliberateh formed, among
other ])in j:)oses, to be an assembly of
illustrious elders.
.\nd ^\■hile they could do mucli for
country and Senate, the Senate could
do something very usefully to them.
Any man sitting there can be in
constant and close communication
with the inner lealities, particularly
those of foreign policy. Once in this
status, once he is awaie of all that is
iiiNolved below the surface on lor-
eigif issues, a man usually grows in
his sense of responsibilit) and re-
stiaint and matiues in his sense of
mission. This ^vould be particularly
true of our former Presidents, who,
having no further use for ambition,
coidd sjieak the truth and the whole
truth as they might see it, beholden
to no man and bound by no fear of
rejjrisal at the voting booth.
And (here is another function, too,
which (hey could most satisfyingly
and helpfully perform. Year by year
and almost month by month, there
is increasing demand uj)on this gov-
ernment to send eminent men
abroad, not always for mere ribbon-
cutting exercises but often for sensi-
tive private talks with ministers and
j)oientates in other lands. If we
should have a sticky problem with
Gieece as a member of the "Western
Alliance, for example, could there
])ossibly be a happier choice as per-
sonal emissary to Athens than Sena-
tor Harry S. Truman, the author of
the Greece-Turkey Doctrine? If
fences needed mending in Belgium,
wdiat better man than Senator Her-
bert Hoover, the author of Belgian
Relief after the first world war? If
problems arose with the British too
delicate for official discussions, what
would be wrong with quietly using
Senator Dwight D. Eisenhower, the
unforgotten hero of London?
So I cast one vote for Senators
Hoover, Truman, and Eiseidiower;
and one, in good time, for Senator
Kennedy, too.
the new £> O O JvS
LEO STEINBERG
Art Books, 1960-1961
Mr. Steinberg writes an annual review of out-
stanaui}: hooks on art for "Harper's." This year
he concentrates on new publications in the modern
field. With the January issue, Elizabeth Hardwick
and Paul Pickrel will start taking over "The New
Books' for alternate months.
ASS U M I N G for a moment that the texts
ill illustrated books on modern art are
nuani to he read, these texts are of two kinds:
Those in whidi ]an_e;iiaj2;e is used to get at the
painting, and from ihe jiainting back to the
reader, i.e.. the language working like a searching
beam, a ricodiet, a causeway, or a finger— any-
thing that keeps the talk right-angled to the pic-
tine plane. And, on the other hand, those books
in which language puffs out into a j^arallel
obstruction: a smoke screen, or a clouded wind-
shield or— with his back to the work— the bulky
jjicsence of the eminent speaker himself.
Among the new books in the modern field, at
least t\\'o or three take their place in the first
group, Avhich is very good scoring. I begin with
Robert Rosenblum's Cubism and Twentieth-
Century Art (Harry N. Abrams, 1961, .S25).
Rosenblum writes with absolute intellectual
honesty, and tlie effect is sheer liberation. It is
now fifty years since Cubism began to be ex-
plained—that it explored "the object's primary
characteristics"; that it expressed the new reality
revealed to physics, including, among other
things, Kinstein's space-time continuum; or that
it sought to "bring to the surface the primal im-
pulses of nature." For all of which Rosenblum's
ojjening page substitutes three formulations that
are hard and clear and in accord with what the
pictures show: (1) Cubism lifts the distinction
l^etween masses and voids; (2) it presents un-
stable structures of dismembered planes in inde-
terminate spatial positions; (3) its subject matter
is "the process by which nature is transformed
into art."
How liberating to be no longer told that
Cubism set about a thorough "analysis of the
object," but to read that it "created an artistic
language of intentional ambiguity"; to be no
longer taught that Cubism expressed temporal
duration, or that it put tlie observer in motion
by showing him simultaneous facets which can
only be seen on the move. Rosenblum dispenses
with four-dimensional invocations and declares
what he sees: "The figure is pieced together of
fragments taken from multiple and discontinu-
ous viewpoints. . . . One senses neither duration
nor instantaneity, but rather a composite time of
fragmentary moments without permanence or
sequential continuity."
Perhaps this is Rosenblum's finest feat, that
though he presents Cubism as preoccupied chiefly
with painting itself, there is nowhere a slacken-
ing of vital tensions. The phases of Cubism
unfold like a drama. Collage enters the scene
like a last-minute deliverance from a threatened
imjxisse. The author's enthusiasm derives not
only from his feeling for the works discussed but
from his ability to re-experience the tremor and
the exhilaration of an historical moment.
The disposition of the material is a model of
logic and clarity. In Part I Cubism is defined
at its core (early Picasso and Braque); in Part
II it grows by attraction (Oris, Leger, and the
rest of the original band); in Part III it fades out
by radiating its influence into almost every phase
of twentieth-century art— this last section being
necessarily the least compelling, and the most
controversial.
The book's illustrations are generous in num-
ber and quality. There is a useful chronology at
the end, and, for once, instead of a mere listing
of titles, a critical bibliography; Rosenblum gives
a succinct characterization of every book or
article cited.
Two minor criticisms. A complete account of
Cubism will eventually have to consider the pow-
erful myths and misinterpretations to which it
gave rise, and particularly Cubism's own early
view of itself. Could this part of the story make
an appendix to the second edition? And finally,
as regards Rosenblum's writing: it is at times
overabundant, with sentences that bog down as
they push two or three relative clauses. But in
the end even the flaws become an expression of
that same headlong enthusiasm which conceived,
sustained, and completed a great book on
twentieth-century art.
TO bring the subtle and elusive intentions of
modern painting within reach of rational under-
88
THE NEW BOOKS
standing: for Cubism it has been done, and now
Marcel Jean does almost as much for Surrealism.
His History of Surrealist Painting (Grove Press,
1960; over 400 illustrations, $17.50) combines
good history— much of which he has witnessed
and which he plots year by year— with sensitive
interpretation. This is matter for awe and sur-
prise, for Surrealism, by its irreverence and its
mortal association with humor, wards off the in-
terpreter. If he approaches with grave mien and
philanthropic design, he is foredoomed to re-
main an outsider. And if he tries to enter into
the spirit of the thing, he falls into the tempta-
tion to present himself as one of the gang, adopt-
ing their own evasive, mocking, or elliptical
speech. The danger is that one or other connec-
tion—with the subject, or with the lay reader-
will snap. And there is only one way to avoid
these dangers, and that is to be the kind of person
for whom they do not exist.
M. Jean has spent eleven years on his book,
achieving accuracy and insight and a prose of
concentrated eloquence, whether he speaks of the
"sexual frenzy of factories . . . simulacra of in-
exhaustible loves," or of a piazza in Florence
—"and its anachronistic streetcar swaying along
the shady side of the square like a ghost rattling
its chains."
His own exquisite diction silvers every quota-
tion, so that the great Surrealists he puts on stage
declaim like beneficiaries of a satanic pentecost.
Here is Jean Arp on the bourgeois: "less im-
agination than the earth-worm and in place of a
heart an over-life-size corn which twitches in
times of approaching storm— on the stock ex-
change." Or Picabia on people in general:
"Vegetables are more serious than men and more
sensitive to frost." Or Chirico, describing a pic-
ture in which a man is shown meditating before
an industrial town, while the Crucifixion pro-
ceeds on the next hilltop. This painting, he adds,
"had won a silver medal for its balanced com-
position."
There are weaknesses in the book: M. Jean's
understanding of Cubism will seem superficial to
Mr. Rosenblum's readers. I am dismayed by
occasional lapses into secondhand clinical psy-
chology—these being neither as interesting nor
as convincing as his own direct intuitions. But
with so engaging a mind, there results no great
loss of confidence. And this is important, for the
moment arrives when the subject becomes too
recondite, too labyrinthine or multi-storied for
straight comprehension. And here M. Jean pro-
ceeds like the more honest popularizers of
science who, at a certain point, announce with
regret that from now on-but just for a little
while— only those with mathematics will be able
to follow.
This happens in Chapter IV, devoted to
Dudianip's "Large C;iass," entitled "The Bride
Stripped Bare by Her Bachelors, Even." To cer-
tain initiates, this unfinished work (now in the
Philadelphia Museum) has seemed as potent as,
say, the late novels of Joyce. Our author, after
a nightmarish bout with Duchamp's many-
phased project, comes up with formulations that
at least indicate the direction of Duchamp's leap:
"The Large Glass of The Bride .... an ironic
precursor of the robots of science fiction, pre-
sented machines capable of making love, and not
only on the physical plane, as with Jarrv's
Supermale: Duchamp's Superfemnle mechanizes
both emotions and erotic thought."
Thanks to such writing, it begins to da^\'n on
the reader that Duchamp is one of the creative
myth makers of our time, that to his admirers,
his imagery is the crucible in which the self-
multiplying multiplicity of man's machine world
is crushed down to a single metaphor. If that
metaphor is understood, the world is coped with,
and then even gaiety can be brought back.
I have not the space to discuss all of this
wonderful book. But for those who have qualms
about Surrealism, I quote M. Jean's concluding
lines, drawing attention, by my italics, to the
three best adjectives I ever saw, and to the sacred
precision with which they click into place: "The
greatness of Surrealist painting lies in its passion
for discovery, in its appeal to the Marvelous, in
its exact, legible, mysterious content. The
Labyrinth builds itself from the inside, but it
can become as limitless as our need for liberty."
MORE ON SURREALISM
BEFORE taking leave of the subject: Two im-
portant source books on Surrealism have come
out in English: The Bride Stripped Bare by Her
Bachelors, Even, a typographical version, by
Richard Hamilton, of Duchamp's manuscript
notes for the "Large Glass" (translated by
George Heard Hamilton, ^6) becomes Vol. 14
of the indispensable "Documents of Modern Art"
series, published by George Wittenborn. This
elegant, illustrated little book (best read in con-
junction with Marcel Jean's History and Robert
Lebel's fine Duchamp monograph, Grove Press,
1959) tells you more or less exactly how "the
most astounding machine of our time"— with
its bride motor, love gasoline, bachelor machine,
and desire gears— was expected to work.
The other source book is Alfred Jarry's Ubu
Roi (New Directions Paperback, 1961, $1.65), the
scandalous five-acter of 1896, nicely translated by
Barbara Wright. Here is the sort of thing:
Mere Ubu: He will get the better of you because he
has right on his side.
Pere Ul)u: Oh tripe! Isn't it just as good to have
wrong on your side?
I was surprised to find the fairy-tale plot so
conventional and sequential in structure; this
from a man who wanted to rid the theatre of its
purposeless clutter— "first and foremost, the
°T]
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Name
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City Zone State
THE NEW BOOKS
decor and the actors." But then this
is an early work. Only the conclud-
ing "Song of the Disembraining"
suggests the aching bitterness of the
blasphemer who was to become the
greatest heresiarch-martyr of modern
anti-civilization. Its closing line,
written thirty-five years before
Brecht's Threepenny Opera: "When
you set out you're alive, and when
you come back you're slain."*
TWO ON MODERN PAINTING
Nello Ponente: Modern Painting:
Contemporary Trends, 1940-1960.
Translated from the Italian by James
Emmons (Skira, 1960, $27.50). Large
folio; 100 fine color plates of mostly
French, Italian, and U. S. paintings.
If this book fails despite its ma-
terial beauty, it is because the author
undertakes an impossible task: to
present the very now of this morn-
ing's painting and yet to make it a
structured field, as though he were
writing a surveyable past. So his
sixty-six artists deploy in ten com-
panies—from the Geometric Painters
(where Josef Albers bunks with Mag-
nelli) to the Painters of Matter
(Burri, Tapies, Dubuffet). The cri-
teria of association cannot do justice
to anyone's personality, so that it's
much like the army, with half the
men griped about being in the
wrong otitfit.
The author's method of dealing
with his recruits is to adopt a stance
of impartiality (three color plates for
Jackson Pollock, three for Afro, and
three for Bazaine). Appropriate to
his im-attachment is a prose of such
removed generality that nine-tenths
of the author's commentary on any
one painting could apply equally
well to nine out of any ten paintings.
One painter (Herbin) works with
"unflagging insistence on the funda-
mental relationship, so important to
him, between the man and the
work." Another's picture (Soulages')
"represents the presence of a complex
well-defined reality and a confident
faith in the ultimate destinies of
painting." A third (Burri) allows two
(uliuics, the tradition of order and
of the irrational, ''to co-exist side by
side, so that the relationship in effect
gives rise to a new dimension above
* riic reader who is only interested in
good books should skip the next two.
MERRIAM-WEBSTER ANNOUNCES a completely
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Name.
Street
City and State..
92
inHNHAY JOHN DAY
PEARL S. BUCK
Fourteen
Stories
"There is no story among the
fourteen that does not leave
the reader with that lingering
after-image that is the test of
any work of art."
— Saturday Review. $4.00
For younger readers— Pearl S,
Buck's THE CHRISTMAS
GHOST. Beautifully illus-
trated by Anna Marie
Magagna. $2.95
iTHE
ASTONISHED
MUSE
By S. L. M. Barlow. This
brilliantly readable book con-
tends that it is the creative
artist who has always done
most for man's intellectual
progress. $5.00
JOHN G. CALDWELL
SOUTH ASIA TRAVEL GUIDE.
The only comprehensive, jet-
age guide to India, Ceylon,
Nepal, Pakistan, Burma, In-
donesia. $4.50
FAR EAST TRAVEL GUIDE. The
only complete guide to Japan,
Korea, Formosa, Hong Kong,
Macao, Thailand, Cambodia,
Laos, Vietnam, Singapore,
Malaya, Philippines. $4.50
STORIES FOR FUIT
AND ADVENTURE
Edited by Phyllis Fenner
and Mary McCrea. The first
anthology of its kind — good
reading for beginners of aver-
age ability and for slow and
reluctant readers of any age.
Widely praised by experts in
the field, $3.50
At all bookstores
"^THE JOHN DAY COMPANY
JD1 New York 16
THE NEW BOOKS
and beyond the standard dimension
of space-time." And practically every-
one paints "a higher reality."*
Werner Haftmann: Painting in
the Twentieth Century, translated
from the German by Ralph Man-
heim (2 vols, boxed. Frederick A.
Praeger, 1961, $42.50).
Reading this compendium was joy-
less work, as though all this survey of
modern painting had been made
within library walls. Hard to believe
that Haftmann, as organizer of two
great "Documenta" exhibitions in
Kassel, had seen and handled thou-
sands of original pictures. There is
little trace of firsthand experience
detectable in his writing; what there
may have been is funneled into the
worn grooves of language. And when
he does simulate an experience, it is
by irrelevant allusion, so that one
simply does not believe him— as
when he says of Pollock's drip'
method that "it suggests the halluci-
nated ecstasy of a whirling dervish."
Much of his commentary is mere
name dropping. To say that Pollock's
"spherical space evokes the infinite,
curved space of modern macrophy-
sics" is as gratuitous as his suggestion
that Rraque's introduction of letters
into his Cubist pictures of 1911 "may
have been inspired by the inscrip-
tions in Gothic paintings."
The author's way with words and
cliches is one phase of his general
commitment to stereotypes. He likes
to speak of what is typically Ger-
manic (=romantic) or French (=ra-
tional) par excellence. Having dis-
cussed the impact of science on artists
before World War I, he continues:
"As one might expect, the artists of
Eastern Europe were less rational
and intellectual in their approach to
the insights of modern science." It is,
however, about Kandinsky that he
proceeds to speak, and Haftmann
knows that the approach of Kandin-
sky, Malevitch, Pevsner, Gabo was
far more "intellectual" than that of
Matisse, Picasso, and Braque. What
"one might expect" is simply the
stereotyped Slav as a less rational,
more instinctual creature.
In the chapter on "The Jewish
Strain in the ficole de Paris," the
stereotype turns out to be tenaciously
* At current valuations, you can get
a hight-r reality for .$500 and up, de-
pending on size and signature.
Each year at this
time we offer a
newly-revised,
edited and expand-
ed Field Guide to
Christmas Book Recipients. It is
done in the spirit of gross commer-
cialism, in recognition of the fact
that every moment saved in the se-
lection of a book for someone else
is a moment exposed to the tempta-
tion of buying one more book for
oneself.
Here are your friends, the ultimate
consumers, as we see them, with
notes chiefly on habitat, on natural
or dyed plumage, or identifying
song; for each species we recom-
mend the following:
If found behind
the pages of the
Times Literary
Supplement, Mar-
ried to Tolstoy by
Cynthia Asquith, Adrift in Soho
by Colin Wilson, The Signs of the
Times by Osbert Lancaster, The
Times Atlas, The S-Man by Mark
Caine, Reflections of a Jacobite
by Louis Auchincloss, A Middle
Class Education by Wilfred
Sheed, A Lover for Estelle by
Daphne Rooke, and Sir Robert
Walpole by J, H, Plumb.
If found at a ticket agency (Here
the characteristic call is all impor-
tant) for Ole, Ole, Barnaby
Conrad's Ency-
clopedia of Bull-
fighting; when
~l^^j< the string of a dul-
r S cimer is plucked
The Ballad Book of John Jacob
Niles and A Treasury of Christ-
mas Songs and Carols by Henry
A. Simon. If a garden show ticket
is being ordered, Taylor's Ency-
clopedia of Gardening by Nor-
man Taylor, If there is even the
faintest echo of Excelsior, Space
Below My Feel by Owen Moffat.
If a Bellissima ! then Bemelmans*
Italian Holiday.
The Swivel Chair
If found ensconced in an Audubon Magazine. The Edge of
the Sea by Rachel Carson, The Field Guide Series by the
incomparable Roger Tor>- Peterson, Blind Jack by Stephanie
Ryder, The Eye of llie Wind by Peter Scott, Music of
the Spheres by Guy Murchie, Dolphins by
Antony Alpers, Birds of the West Indies by
James Bond.
If found at larpc in a bookstore, tliat wariest of living creatures,
tlic i)ntcntial reader of a first novel. Not, of course, a buyer
Criiey are rare almost to the point of extinction) but a reader
may occasionally l)e caught. The Attic salt for his tail is the
eloquent phrase of a highly respected critic so we ofTer a grain
with each title. These are the books: The Gay
Place by William Brammer — "... one of the
ablest novelists now writing in America."
(NYHT); The Mountain and the Feather
by John Ashmead — "A cycloramic, complex
and nostalgic picture of the war in the Pacific . . . superb first
novel . . ." (NYHT) ; Night by Francis Pollini — "That great
national shock, Korea, has finally found its fictional voice in
Night . . r (NYT) : Mother Isn't Dead She's only Sleeping
by Kit Reed — "This first novel is a very successful effort in the
line of artificial comedy . . . Mrs. Reed has the gift of being
funny and her humor is entirely her own." (The Neiv Yorker);
The iNoblest Roman by David Halberstam — "... a high level
of ])rofessional achievement" (NYT); and Private Demons
by MacDonald Harris — "A thriller with a cinematic happy
ending." (PW).
If found in a brown study, Tlie Fantastic Lodge edited by
Helen MacGill Hughes, The Best American Short Stories
1961 edited by Martha Foley and David
Burnett, Poetry and Experience by Archibald
MacLeish, and How Does a Poem Mean?
by John Ciardi.
If found in his own Berkeley Square in the
past, the man or woman who can wear the
plumage of a Scarlet Pimpernel or a Scarlett O'Hara —
Monmouth by Charles Bracelen Flood, Savanna by Janice
Holt Giles, Between the Wars by James Laver.
If found, ready for flight, in an arm chair. The Blue of Capri-
corn by Eugene Burdick and The Witch Doctor's Apprentice
by Nicole Maxwell.
If found and temporarily detached from the local educational
T.V. channel, Black Like Me by John Howard Griffin, Govern-
ment and Politics in Israel by Oscar Kraines, Charles Francis
Adams, 1807-1886 by Martin B. Duberman, and You Can't
Count on Dying by Natalie Cabot.
If found among the good paperbacks, puzzled by a paperback
in cloth, introduce him to Sentry Editions: A Week on the
Concord and Merrimack Rivers by Henry
David Thoreau, A Diary from Dixie by Mary
B. Chesnut, The Education of Henry Adams,
an autobiography; J. B. by Archibald
MacLeish, John C. Calhoun by Margaret L.
Coit, The Maritime History of Massachusetts, 1783-1860,
by Samuel Eliot Morison, My Antonia by Willa Gather, Pat-
terns of Culture by Ruth Benedict, Sam Clemens of Han-
nibal by Dixon Wecter, The Great Crash, 1929, by John
Kenneth Galbraith; The Year of Decision, 1846, by Bernard
De Voto, and Young Man with a Horn by Dorothy Baker.
If found in a commuters' club car, at decent
remove from bridge and bar, the characteristic
sound is amiable silence for talk would shatter
communion with one's favorite newspaper. Last
Things First by Sydney J. Harris and The
Balance of Terror by Pierre Gallois.
If found on the way to the P.T.A., Dr. Spock Talks with
Mothers and Tales Out of School by Joshua M. Craig, and
The Dartmouth Bible.
If found this side of a driver's license, The Bronze Bow by
Elizabeth Speare, Dear Rat by Julia Cunningham, and Pad-
dington Helps Out by Michael Bond.
If found in a mood (distaff side) Tselane by
J. van Wijk, Fresh from the Country by
"Miss Read", Love in Question by Rosalie
Packard, Mexico Through My Kitchen
Window by Maria de Carbia, and The Night-
ingale — that love story of a gentler era — by Agnes Sligh
Turnbull.
If found overwhelmed by even more books than bookcases, here
is the one who already owns the book you would give him. He
bought Midcentury by John Dos Passos last spring and has
given away half a dozen copies since then. He bought Clock
Without Hands by Carson McCullers before publication, per-
haps, even before it became a pre-publication best-seller. He owns
all of the earlier books by Carson McCullers. He owns the orig-
inal hard back edition of all the Sentries. So give him a Book
Certificate and let him wait for February and the big novel of
the spring. Devil Water — a recreation of the last Jacobite
rebellion — by Anya Seton.
And for every Christmas stocking, the perfect spot for the per-
fect extra Christmas gift, Scrap Irony by Felicia Lamport with
illustrations by Edward Gorey.
Houghton Mifflin Company, Publishers
A study program in RAPID READING
^Sponsored hy
Columbia University
UNDER THE ADMINISTRATION OF
Book- of- the -Month Club
. . . tested, practical at-home instruction which can help
you read much faster and with better retention
How OFTEN do you hear yourself saying,
"I wish I had more time to read!"
This study program is the sensible
answer for every cultivated person who wants to
keep up with the important reading forever flood-
ing upon him— vital news; outstanding books and
magazine articles; business, professional and
technical documents; and other "must" reading.
Seven years in preparation, this course enables
you to read far more in the time you are now
able to spare.
For over a quarter of a century psychologists
have been studying the reading process. Very
early, one of the startling discoveries was that the
average reading speed of American adults is be-
low the average reading speed of children in the
eighth grade; that is, less than 200 words per
minute. Obviously, this is a hopelessly inade-
quate rate.
Two other highly important discoveries were
made, first, that contrary to a general belief, the
slow reader is not a ''sure" reader. People who
read fast almost invariably retain far more of
what they read than the plodding slow reader.
SECOND, that slow reading is as common among
those with high IQs as among the lesser brows.
In sum, all the research has shown that slow
and non-retentive reading has its basic explana-
tion in bad reading habits.
Good habits can be acquired as well as bad;
and over the years reading researchers have grad-
ually perfected good-habit-forming techniques
which, within a remarkably short time, can be
relied upon to improve immensely the reading
skill of any normal person.
In this Columbia University Study Program
all the proven successful techniques have been so
worked out that no supervising instructor is
needed. Any individual working alone and mak-
ing use of the simple devices and the practice ma-
terial provided can be sure of success.
The truth is that some improvement should
show at the very beginning. That is the reason
for the liberal offer made here— to send you the
first portfolio, with the devices pictured, for two
weeks' trial. If you are not persuaded by your
first experience of the importance to yourself of
continuing, send everything back and the sub-
scription will be canceled.
A SIMPLE METHOD OF OPERATION
THE full program consists of thirteen port-
folios, the first of which is sent for two weeks'
trial. You will receive a bill for $4.75 (plus a
small postage and handling charge) , payable only
if you decide to continue the course. If not, the
portfolio, the Reading-Pacer and the Reading-
Timer should be returned within two weeks.
If you decide to continue with the full series,
the succeeding twelve portfolios will be sent at
intervals of three weeks (with a bill for $4.75,
plus postage, in each case) . Roughly, an average
of fifteen minutes' practice a day will be called
for throughout the course.
Columbia University Study Program in Rapid Reading, c/o Book-of-the-Month Club, Inc., 345 Hudson St., N. Y. 14, N. Y.
TESTS OF YOUR READING HABITS YOU CAN MAKE RIGHT NOW
What is your present reading speed? A full col-
umn in this magazine ordinarily runs to
around 440 words. Read a column now and
time yourself with a watch having a second
hand. If it takes more than 55 seconds it is
practically certain that this program will im-
prove both your speed and comprehension.
How many "fixations" do your eyes make on each
line? Unconsciously, as you read across each
line, your eyes actually move in little jumps.
The momentary pauses between these jumps
are called "eye fixations." Read part of the
material on the left hand page. You should
get across each line with not more than three
eye fixations. If you are not aware of the
number, have someone watch your eyes and
count the fixations. Even if there are three—
and certainly if there are more— your eye
span can be widened by the exercises pro-
vided; that is, there will be fewer fixations
and you will read faster because of this im-
provement alone.
Do you find yourself reading word by word, in-
stead of in groups of words or phrases and
do you regress continually, looking back every
line or so to check up on a word or words you
either missed or misunderstood? In most
cases these habits can be almost totally elimi-
nated.
How well do you retain what you read? Here is a
fair immediate test. You probably read in
today's newspaper the main news article, the
one on the far right-hand side of the front
page. Without referring back, write down in
a few words what the article was about, what
person or persons were principally involved,
and any other details evidently important.
Then go back to the article and see how at-
tentively you actually did read it. This will
reveal to you the way you read all the time;
that is, this is your present standard of compre-
hension and retention. In as few as two les-
sons it can be noticeably improved.
THIS FIRST PORTFOLIO SENT FOR EXAMINATION AND STUDY
. . . with privilege of return after two weeks' trial
CONTENTS
^ Basic Instruction Guide
^ Automatic Reading-Timer
^ Calibrated Reading-Pacer
^ Training Manual
^ Eye-and-Mind Practice Section
^ Reading-Pacer Practice Material
^ Speed-and-Comprehension Practice
Material
^ Speed-and-Comprehension Tests
'^ Reading Improvement Chart
[to record your progress)
INCLUDED WITHOUT CHARGE WITH THE FIRST PORTFOLIO
"Readina-Tacer and 'Readina-'Jimer
(COMBINED RETAIL PRICE: $20.00)
BOTH OF THESE instruments are needed throughout the program. The
Reading-Timer is always necessary to show one's speed at different times
and widi different kinds of reading matter. The Reading-Pacer is the most
practical pacing machine available for individual use today and the only one
designed for use at home. In use, the pacing bar descends from the top to the
bottom of the page, at speeds which you can set, forcing you to read as fast as
the bar is moving. The controlled rate of descent can be adjusted by the turn of
a dial from 250 to 650 words per minute. From the first lesson onward you gradu-
ally increase the speed to train yourself to read faster.
98
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Pantheon Books
THREE INTELLECTUALS
IN POLITICS
By JAIVIES JOLL. Must an intellectual in politics
always be doomed by his virtues? A noted Oxford historian
examines this question against the stormy public careers
of Leon Blum, Walther Rathenau, and Filippo Tommaso
Marinetti. $4.50
ZEN, ROCKS AND WATERS
By FREDERIC SPIEGELRERG. Philosopher, ex-
plorer, author, and teacher, Dr. Spiegelberg has a conta-
gious enthusiasm for Zen as well as a deep knowledge of
its history. Sixteen exquisite illustrations demonstrate
the Zen attitude toward nature. Introduction by Sir Herbert
Read. $5.00
A TUDOR TRAGEDY
By LACEY HALDWIIV SMITH. Catherine Howard,
Henry VIITs frivolous, unfaithful fifth wife, is the subject
of this superb biography which, at the same time, offers
a vivid picture of 16th-century court life. $4.50
ON SOCIALIST REALISM
By AHRAM TERTZ. The anonymous young Soviet
writer whose The Trial Begins was hailed by Time mag.
azine as "perhaps the most remarkable novel to have come
out of Russia since the Revolution", dissects the doctrine
of socialist realism with Swiftian irony. $2.95
PSYCHOTHERAPY
EAST AND WEST
By ALAX W. WATTS. Life magazine calls Watts
"the chief exponent of the burgeoning Zen movement in
America". In this new book he explores the common
ground between Western psychiatry and Eastern phi-
losophy, and the things they can teach each other. $4.50
]\'(fic at your bookstore
I'A.VaiEON BOOKS
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THE NEW BOOKS
lodged, whence Haftmann can say ot
Modigliani that "he was not an
orthodox Jew, nor Avas he homesick
tor the East, but always tor his '((ira
bella Italia.' " He tells us that the art
ot Cliagall, Soutine. Pascin, Modigli-
ani, "reflects nostalgia tor a lost
Iiomeland, the sense of helplessness in
llie lace ot a remote, hojjelcssly hid-
den God, Avhich is so iini(]iielv rliar-
aderistic of the Jewisli nicntalitv."
liut I cannot imagine how Haft-
mann (amc bv liis notion ol tlie
iiKK (cssil)lc God as "unicjiicly
)c\\isli" and "typically Hassidic."*
On tlic contrary, tlic ^'i(Idis]l lan-
guage, in wliich Chagall and .Soutine
Avcrc raised, knows intimate en-
dearing and diminutive torms tor
I he word "God" for ^\•]li(h modern
Western languages lia\c no ccjuixa-
lents (tiie German "Adi, Gottihcn"
\\(n^'{ (pialif\). Haftmann's repeated
rc-maiks al)out the "Hassidim griev-
ing over a world witliont liope" only
show tliat lie is name dif)pping again
—exactly as when he talks al)out the
influence on art of c|uaimim theory
Ol' relativity. His is a sort of Has-
sidic relativity of uncertain chift.
Perhaps Haftmann cciuld not
ha\e Avritien so comprehensive a
l)ook Avithoui constant recourse to
c lie he's. Complex issues and jierson-
a lilies become manageable. One of
the auihor's favorite roles is to tell
^\•hat an artist's "sole ]:)urjiose'" ■was.
C'ompound purposes are haidh al-
lowed to his ]Dainters. ])ciha]js l)e-
cause many of them have, like Nolde,
"an uncc)m])licated. jnimitive mind."
or. like Soutine, "no inicllectua] cul-
ture Avhatever," acquiring their
idiom "without thinking'"; some,
like Kokoshka and the young ^'Iam-
inck, are "purely instincti\e paint-
ers," or "ingenuous souls." like
Chagall. Even Haftmann's \'an Gogh
"talks like a lout."
In sum, the I)ook marshals a great
tiodv of lac ts and recei\ecl ideas. Be-
yond that, it gets exercised about
pseudo-prolilems {e.g., Avhciher Klee
* Clonsictcr this classic dialogue be-
iwfcn Hassicl and a skeptic:
lliissid: My l<.abl)i is siu ii a holy man,
ilial every .Sabbath c\c Cod speaks with
him lace to face.
Sl<rj)li(: How do von knoAv?
Jfdssid: My Raijbi told me so himscU.
Shrjilii : IVrhaps he lied--
lldssid (alter iliinkini^ it over): Would
(.od .spcaL lace Lo lace with a liar?
Treasured gift books
for festive giving
LAROUSSE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF THE EARTH
(Geology, Paleontology and Pre-History). Introduction
by SIR VIVIAN FUCHS and CARROLL LANE FEN-
TON. The most complete, authoritative, and superbly
illustrated book of its kind. 600 illus., many full color
plates. Special Christmas price $12.95 ($15.00 after
Christmas)
LAROUSSE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF WORLD
GEOGRAPHY (Europe) Introduction by DUDLEY
STAMP. Devoted in its entirety to the 32 countries of
Europe (except U.S.S.R.) ...with 676 masterpieces of
modern mapmaking and geographic photography, many
in full color. Special Christmas price $H.95. ($17.50 after
Christmas)
GREAT HOUSES OF EUROPE Introduction by
SACHEVERELL SITWELL. With over 500 photographs
in black and vi^hite and 40 in magnificent full color. "One
of the most beautiful and rewarding gift books of the
season."— Vtrfl'twia Kirkus. Special Christmas price
$19.95. ($22.50 after Christmas)
THE AMERICAN YEAR Edited by HENRY HILL
COLLINS. The gift book of the year for nature lovers-
portraying in anthology form the face of nature across
America through the four seasons. With 48 pages of ex-
traordinary illustrations on colored paper. Before
Christmas $8.95 (thereafter $10.00)
PLEASURES AND TREASURES Series. For the
collector and connoisseur— books as beautiful as the sub-
jects they cover— each with 32 color plates and 70-80 black
and white illustrations. SHELLS by Roderick Cameron
• FRENCH 18th CENTURY FURNITURE by Mme.
Souchal • CLOCKS by Simon Fleet • SILVER by Richard
Came • TARTANS by Lady Hesketh • FRENCH PORCE-
LAIN by H. Landais Each $3.95
Af all bookstores G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS
100
MORROWW
i LAURENS
1 van der Post
THE HEART OF THE HUNTER
An extraordinary book, continuing
the study of the heart and soul of
the African Bushman begun in The
Lost World of the Kalahari. lUus.
by Maurice Wilson. Morrow. $4.50
ROBERT M.
THE NEW BOOKS
BEYOND THE ALPS
A summer's sojourn in the ancient
Italian hill towns — Aosta, Lucca,
Orvieto, Assisi, and others — captur-
ing for the reader their unique
essence. Photos. Shane. $4.00
ERLE STANLEY
Gardner
HOVERING OVER BAJA
The author and his adventurous
gang return to that mysterious land
of Lower California, exploring by
helicopter in areas lont> undisturbed
by man. Exciting personal adven-
ture. Photos. Morrow. $6.00
NICHOLAS
onsarrat
THE WHITE RAJAH
Pageantry and adventure on a grand
scale, in a novel of a devil-may-care
Englishman who came to power in
an Asiatic kingdom of fabulous
wealth a century ago. Shane. $4.95
Coming December 5th
a new novel by the author of
THE DEVIL'S ADVOCATE
MORRIS L.
DAUGHTER OF SILENCE
Set in contemporary
Italy, its focal point
is a murder trial that
opens up sixteen years
of sinister history.
Morrow. S3.95
WILLIAM MORROW & COMPANY
I^ILLIAM SLOANE ASSOCIATES
or Matisse should rightly be called
the antithesis of Eniil Nolde); it dis-
plays pseudo-insights (that modern
primitives show "reality in its pri-
mordial aspect"); and it proffers
pseudo-propositions like: "I believe
that the history of the human race is
governed by the law of life."
OUTSTANDING among the
year's modern monographs is Bryan
Robertson's Jackson Pollock (Harry
N. Abrams, 1960, .SI 8.50). It is ad-
mittedly very uneven. The author's
comments on art in general, or on
the American temperament as a
whole, are embarrassing. Art history
he treats in large misconceptions, and
puts Chartres in the wrong province
of France. Yet the heart of the writer
is in the right place, and his lan-
guage ahvays strikes home. When he
comes to Pollock's drip technique, he
finds not "hallucinated ecstasv." but
"the same split-second precision as
that of a cow-hand wielding a lariat."
For its ardor, its litcracv. and its
absorbed contemplation of what the
artist has made, this is a fine book.
To say nothing of the excellent illus-
trations, which include a great num-
ber of unpublished draAvings.
T admired Sies^fricd Kracaucr's
Theory of Film: The Redemption of
Phvsical Reality (Oxford. 1960. .SIO).
It is the ripe work of a man pro-
foundly contemporary in outlook,
but who commands an almost nine-
teenth-century disci])line in erecting
a systematic aesthetic of the movies
as an art form. Not every page of this
book is easy to read, but everv page
is worth reading. And much of the
material is read with pleasant recall,
since all of us have seen some of the
films he discusses. Only, it seems to
me that his comments about them
are more coherent than anything vou
or I said at the time.
Among the new books on osten-
sibly wider aesthetic issues I disliked
those of Paul Weiss* and Kurt W.
Marek** from the same principle
that made me respect Rococo to Cub-
ism in Art and Literature, bv \V\Ue
Sypher (Random House, 1960, .S6).
Though this author comes to art
from literature, he knows how to
look at a painting and how to defer
•Nine Basic Arts (Southern Illinois
University Press, 1961. .S5).
*• Ycstermorrow (Knopf, 1961, $3.50).
speculation until he knows he has
seen it. He describes Cezanne (in
"Basket of Apples") "spilling these
thoroughly realized apples across the
top of a table that is speculatively
broken upward on the right, tipping
the surface until the fruit would, in
nature, be rolling off, treating the
napkin as a single white plane even
if it droops over the edge of the
table."
This is speech with its eyes in
focus. And with just such integrity,
when the author speaks of, say, cor-
respondences between science and
art, he points to something specific,
e.g., to the mathematician who Avrote
in 1875 that "distortion passes like
waves from one portion of space to
another." Mr. Sypher's prose is re-
laxed, proceeding almost by free
association. His chosen problem:
'What it takes for an age to achieve
its »own style in art.
PICTURE BOOKS
A M O N G the outstanding picture
books of the vear: The Drawings of
Jean Dubuffet, by Daniel Cordier
"(George Bra/iller, 'i960, .S15).
The Graphic Work of M. C.
Escher (Duell, Sloan and Pearce,
1961, .S6)— weird paradoxical pictures
that probe the relation between
image, illusion, projection, and
(wherever she may be) truth.
Saul Steinberg: The Labyrinth
(Harper, 1960, .S7.50). I should have
liked to say much in praise of this
book, but every attempt I make to
speak of Saul Steinberg's drawings
makes me feel like Miro's "Man
Pursuing a Bird."
Two books that make better look-
ing than reading: Braque, with text
by John Richardson (New York
Graphic Society, 1961, .S12.50)-a
folio of exceptionally fine design and
production; and Picasso's Picassos,
bv David Douglas Duncan (Harper,
1961, S30).
The fulsome commentary by Dun-
can, the amateur writer, is fortunate-
ly drowned out by the paintings,
nobly presented by Duncan, the pro-
fessional photographer. Since most
of these paintings, stacked at Picasso's
villa at Cannes, have not been
previovisly seen, their publication
fills some puzzling gaps in Picasso's
career. Certain years, notably in the
DO YOUR CHRISTMAS BOOKSHOPPING HERE
THE DIVIDED UNION by J. G.
Randall and David Donald.
The finest one-volume his-
torv of the Civil War.
Illustrated. $6.50
FRANNY AND ZOOEY by J. D.
Salinger. The first appear-
ance in hook form of two
members of a now famous
family named Glass. $4.00
■PRUSSIA AND THE WEST UN-
DER LENIN AND STALIN by
George F. Kennan. "Every
American ought to read it."
-WiLLlAlvi L. Shirer. $5.75
FIRE IN THE ICE by Dorothy
James Roberts. "Ranks with
Sigrid Undset's Kristin
Lavransdattor."
— Orville Prescott. $5.00
THE WARTIME PAPERS OF R.
E. LEE edited by Clifford Dow-
dey and Louis H. Manarin.
Over 1,000 important
papers. 15 maps. $12.50
4fTHE INCREDIBLE JOURNEY
by Sheila Burnford. The story
of three runaways. "A
small masterpiece."— A/^. Y.
Herald Tribune. $3.75
// f/'/"'
EUGENIE by Hester Chapman.
A novel about the tragic
empress who dominated the
glittering years of Second-
Empire France. $5.00
RED PLUSH AND BLACK VEL-
VET by Joseph Wechsberg.
The memorable story of
Melba and the great days
of grand opera. Hlus. $6.50
4fTHE EDGE OF SADNESS by
Edwin 0'Connor."His finest
book. It has gusto and wit,
depth and significance."
- Boston Herald. $5.00
A CORDIALL WATER by M. F.
K. Fisher, author of How To
Cook a Wolf. A garland of
remedies to assuage the ills
of man or beast. $3.95
THE JUDAS TREE by A. J.
Cronin. A devastating new
novel about a doctor who is
a supreme egoist — by the
author of The Citadel. $4.95
THE TOWERS OF LOVE by
Stephen Birmingham. "A fine
novel . . . reminds one of
John P. Marquand."
- Boston Herald. $4.95
THE GREAT FORGERY by Edith
Simon. A fascinating novel
based on the van Meegeren
art forgerv — bv the author
of The Golden Hand. $5.95
FALSE ENTRY by Hortense
Calisher. "With this novel
she takes her place among
the top-rank of writers."
-Santha Rama Rau. $5.75
iOS^^VSOL^
^NORTH OF MONADNOCK
by Newton F. Tolman. A
shrewdly observant account
of country life in the New
Hampshire uplands. $4.50
Your bookstore will
gift-wrap the books you
select and mail them
for you — a service
that makes Christmas
bookshopping as easy
as it is pleasant.
* Atlantic Monthly
Press Books
LITTLE, BROWN
and COMPANY
BOSTON
IVZ
Assembly
Twenty-four new short stories and two new novellas
by JOHN O'HARA who calls them "some of the
most joyful writing I have ever done". $5.95
Wilderness
A novel by ROBERT PENN WARREN. The adven-
tures of a young man who leaves a European ghetto
to fight for freedom in the American Civil War, A
Literary Guild Selection. $4.95
The Children
of Sanchez
By OSCAR LEWIS. From the soul of a Mexican slum
family comes one of the most moving documents
of the 20th century. "A fascinating documentary
... a work of art."— time $7.50
But Not
in Shame
By JOHN TOLAND. What really happened in the
disastrous six months after Pearl Harbor — told in
vivid, authentic detail based on a wealth of new
evidence. Photos, maps. $6.50
Stories for
Late at Night
Edited by ALFRED HITCHCOCK. A novel, 2 novel-
ettes, and 21 stories, carefully chosen by the Master
to make even the hardiest flesh creep. $5.95
The American
College
Dictionary
The most up-to-date, authoritative desk dictionary
published. Especially recommended for Christmas
is the stunning, genuine leather edition, $20.00.
Cloth edition, $5.00; Thumb-indexed, $6.00
Delightful cartoon stocking-stuffer: BOY,
GIRL. BOY, GIRL. JULES FEIFFER'S latest investiga-
tion of modem man and woman as they engage each
other in the body politic, the body social, and the
body body. Paper, $1.50
Cloth, $2.95
Now at your bookstore
RANDOM HOUSE
BOOKS IN BRIEF
]
1930s, used to be called inactive; it
now turns out that a fallow period
anywhere in Picasso's life is incon-
gruous.
best: not modern
IN conclusion I list some of the
best art books of the year in fields
other than modern which are de-
signed for the nonspecialist reader:
Egypt of the Pharaohs, by Sir Alan
Gardiner (Oxford, England, 1961, 35
shillings). A masterly work by a great
scholar and writer, superseding the
old (but still serviceable) History by
James Breasted.
Crete and Mycenae, by Spyridon
Marinatos. Photographs by Max
Hirmer; over 400 ])lates (Harry N.
Abrams, 1960, $25).
Greek Sculpture: A Critical Re-
view, by Rhys Carpenter (University
of Chicago Press, 1960, $6.95).
Digging for History, by Edward
Bacon (John Day, 1961, $10). A read-
able survey of archaeological discov-
eries throughout the world since
World War II.
Alexandria, by E. M. Forster
(Doubleday Anchor Paperback, 1961,
95 cents). Probably the best book of
the year.
Chinese Painting, by James Cahill
(Skira, 1960, $27.50).
The Gothic. Literary Sources and
Interpretations Through Eight Cen-
turies, by Paul Frankl (Princeton,
1960, $20).
Classical Inspiration in Medieval
Art, by Walter Oakeshott (Frederick
A. Praeger, 1960, $20).
Paintings of the High Renaissance
in Rome and Florence, by S. J.
Freedberg (Harvard, 1961, 2 vols.,
$30).
The Architecture of Michelangelo,
by James S. Ackerman (Viking, 1961,
2 vols., $12.50 each).
Bruegel Drawings, A Complete
Edition, by Ludwig Munz (Phaidon,
1961, $13.50).
Valdes Leal: Spanish Baroque
Painter, by Elizabeth du Gue
Trapier (The Hispanic Society of
America, 1960, $10).
The History of Impressionism, by
John Rewald (The Museum of
Modern Art, N.Y., 1961, $20). A re-
vised and enlarged edition of the
authoritative work oi 1946.
Van Gogh; A Self Portrait: Let-
ters Revealing His Life as a Painter,
selected by W. H. Auden (New York
Graphic Society, 1961,
BOOKS
in brief
KATHERINE GAUSS JACKSON
FICTION
The End of It, by Mitchell Good-
man.
Years ago John Hersey wrote a
novel— and a good one— about the
American Army in Italy in World
War II. Nothing in the world could
be more different from A Bell for
Adano than this one with the same
country as background and many of
the same tensions. Both books are
written from strong moral convic-
tion but oddly enough this one, writ-
ten so much further from the facts
and time, is the more passionately
intense. It is a beautiful book with
FOR C HILDREN ?
And finally, about two children's
books:
Pictures from a Mediaeval Bible,
102 woodcuts from the Cologne Bible
of 1478-1480, with commentary by
James Strachan (Beacon Press, 1961,
$3.50). Every picture is a sheer de-
light, and the writing touched by a
merry grace: (". . . Abel's sacrifice
being highly successful while Cain's
turns out a flop"). But the Fiend
in the production department in-
spired three vicious decisions: The
pictures are minimized to almost half
their original size, and they are
printed in red— which two factors re-
duce the luminous style of the old
woodcuts to an ugly, illegible clutter.
Thirdly, the lily-gilding jacket de-
sfgn is of a devilish vulgarity; it near
breaks one's heart.
The Seeing Eye, by Freda Ling-
strom (Macmillan, 1960, $7). An im-
aginative, well-paced course in "how
to look at natural and man-made
things with pleasure and understand-
ing." A lovable book. But it was
produced in England, and the text is
set in type considerably smaller than
what you normally get on a TV :
screen; thus I cannot be sure that
our children will be able to read it.
19618 BRIGHTEST GIFTS
THE HORIZON BOOK OF
THE RENAISSANCE
A magnificent art-and-essay panorama of
the golden age that shaped the Western
world. 432 pages; 480 illustrations, 160
in full color; completely original text.
Regular, $17.50; de luxe, $19.95
MATHEMATICS IN THE MAKING
A brilliant pictorial history by Lancelot
Hogben, author of Mathematics for the
Million. More than 400 bold, imaginative
pictures (over 100 in color) complement
a vivid, stimulating text. $9.95
THE NORMAN ROCKWELL ALBUM
The unquestioned gift of the year for the
millions of Rockwell fans, featuring 192
pages of reproductions and lively com-
ment by the artist. $14.50 before Christ-
mas, $20.00 thereafter; de luxe, $19.50
before Christmas, $25.00 thereafter.
THE VERY REAL TRUTH
ABOUT CHRISTMAS
The perfect stocking stufFer — an appealing
story by Bernice Kelly Harris about two
children who discover the true meaning
of Christmas. Only $ 1 .00
THE SHIP
An illustrated history covering 6000 years
of maritime craft from primitive rafts to
the atomic submarine. 810 color illustra-
tions make this a most impressive gift for
yachtsmen, actual and would-be. $14.95
MR. PULLMAN'S ELEGANT PALACE CAR
Lucius Beebe, America's most famous rail-
roader, has created a nostalgic adventure
in this story of 19th-century luxury cars
and their opulent era. 480 pages; 698 illus-
trations. $17.50
THE COMING FURY
Bruce Catton, the Pulitzer Prize-winning
Civil War historian, crowns his amazing
record with this compelling narrative of
America's road to war in 1861. A Book-
of-the-Month Club selection, this is the
first volume of the long-awaited Centen-
nial History of the Civil War. $7.50
FOLK SONGS OF
ENGLAND, IRELAND,
SCOTLAND AND WALES
More than 100 classics — love ballads,
comic songs, lullabies, children's songs,
songs of rebellion— in a handsome treasury
edited by William Cole. With piano and
guitar arrangements by Norman Monath,
color illustrations, and commentary. $7.50
THE DOUBLEDAY PICTORIAL
LIBRARY OF GEOGRAPHY
The fascinating story of our planet, its
people and resources, prepared by world-
famous authorities and lavishly illustrated
with hundreds of paintings, photographs,
diagrams, maps and charts. Especially ap-
propriate for teenagers and adults both.
$9.95
THE HISTORY OF IMPRESSIONISM
John Rewald has completely revised and
greatly enlarged his best-selling survey of
Impressionist art and artists — Degas,
Corot, Manet, Renoir, and other giants.
662 pages; 635 plates, 86 in full-color, full-
page size. $20.00
COME FROM DOUBLEDAY
At all booksellers * From
-pv /^TTT) T TpT^ A AT' publishers of 1961 's greatest fiction best seller
JJ U U IJ Jj IJ DIW Irving Stone's The Agony
Agony and the Ecstasy
104
' •"■— "»j«<
4 New Biographies
from ^c;a{)Mfi;ti
■'''/A
Finis Farr
FRANK LLOYD
WRIGHT
The first full-length biog-
raphy of the great American
architect who became an
American legend. $5.95
W. A. Swanberg
CITIZEN HEARST
"A fascinating study in hu-
man character... Mr. Swan-
berg has done an absolutely
first-rate job." — erwin d.
CANHAM, Christian Science
Monitor $7.50
June Bingham
COURAGE TO CHANGE
AN INTRODUCTION TO THE
LIFE AND THOUGHT OF
REINHOLD NIEBUHR
"Not only a lucid account of
Niebuhr's thought, but a
vivid and charming picture
of Niebuhr the man."
ARTHUR SCHLESINGER, JR.
$7.50
Douglas Southall Freeman
LEE
A one -volume abridgement
by Richard B. Harwell of
the Pulitzer Prize -winning
four-volume R. E. Lee. "Has
all the merits of the origi- fc/.J
nal." — DUMAS MALONE
$10.00
At all bookstores
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
" """WW^'M' '"^mmw4'm'/
BOOKS IN BRIEF
moments of great excitement, easy
humor, and poetic exaltation. It is
full of an American soldier's love for
Italy and its people, which as Paul
Pickrel pointed out last month has
become almost a literary cliche and
is therefore all the more affecting
wlien it is made affecting at all. A
sensitive soldier's reaction to mecha-
nized war is also a cliche but this
first novel puts it in idioms and
sensual images which are like noth-
ing I have read before. One picks it
up with a sigh because it's "another
war book" and puts it down in a
daze of deep and genuine emotion.
Horizon, $4.50
The Moon and the Thorn, by B. J.
Chute.
This novel by the author of the
best-selling GreenivUlow has just
about all the trappings of a fairy
stf)ry including a witch. There is
first of all a s[)ccial magical island;
there is the beautifid young girl Avho
runs away from home with her
prince cliarming. no less romantic
because he is already married and
unable to make hci' his wife. How-
c\cr. they live togetlier in Paris for
(hiity happy years and when he dies
she returns to the island, and the
novel begins. Her story is known to
everyone; she is ignored by her
family and the "important" folk of
the town. (The castle is closed to
her.) Rut in the end the charm is
bioken and . . . There is also a
moral: Don't try to impose a course
of action on others just because it is
right for you. . . . Like a fairy tale,
the story Tvea\es a spell while you
read, and a happy one. It is beauti-
fully written. But when it is finished
you find that you can't really believe
a Avord of it. Button, $3.75
David, from where he was lying, by
Tom Kaye.
A year ago Mr. Kaye's first novel
was published in this country. It was
a daring novel, its shocking and
rather repelling subject matter— a
lady art critic being lasciviously pur-
sued through the streets of London-
enhanced by a mischievous wit and a
narrative simplicity that gave it pace
and style and lifted it out of the
sordid. As far as I'm concerned, the
same cannot be said of this sec-
ond novel in the tetralogy which
purports to be an "exploration of
the sexual and social mores of our
time." It is a much more ambitious
story with the academic and social
intrigues of the University of Singa-
pore as background and the wives'
coffee klatches making a kind of
Greek chorus to report on the col-
lege gossip. The story is told partly
through the protagonist's sessions
\\ith his analyst, who by some
strange transmogrification seems to
be the gutter lover of the earlier
no^el; partly through the inner
fantasies of the characters as they
sit in faculty meeting; and partly
in imadorned narrative, mostly of
sexual incidents. Yes, it is very com-
plicated indeed, and though it still
has flashes of Avit, the elaborate con-
struction, the unpleasant characters,
the unlikely analyst, and cspeciallv
the "hero" and his tiresome sexual
adventures make one want to drop
the l\ook long before the end. The
author is professor of English at the
University of Ghana.
Abelard-Schuman, S3.95
NON-FICTION
Matter of Life and Death, by Vir-
gil ia Peterson.
In this autobiography written in
the difficult form of a letter to her
dead mother, the distinguished liter-
ary critic and lecturer tells of her
A\cll-to-do, literate, middle-class uj)-
bringing in New York, her open
hatred for her mother which seems
to have shaped her life, her three
marriages, one to a Polish prince,
and of her life here and in Europe
before, during, and after the war.
It reflects in all aspects of her hard-
lived journey the often brilliant, but
involuted and nearly ahvays an-
guished, workings of an intense mind
that never will let go. Her occasional
moments of delight stand out to be
counted— a lovely panegyric on the
joys of summer first among them.
She has been accused of being
hard and insensible to the feelings of
others— not only of her mother, who
won't read the book, but of others
still alive who will. But if Polonius
is right and in being true to one's
self one cannot then be false to any
other. Miss Peterson has paid the
price. In her story (without a single
proper name) she has been meticu-
lously, soul-searchingly, often cruelly
true to herself, good and bad, what-
"Never was there an autobiography remotely Hke PROMISE
by Rotnain Gary . . . Brilliantly entertaining . . . His mother
most endearing and extraordinary women." — Orville
AT DAWN
is one of the world's
Prescott, N. Y. Times
$5.00
PICASSO'S PICASSOS= p
by Dovid Douglas Duncan
Picasso's legendary collection
of paintings never before shown
of the entire collection;
The Treasures of La Californie
presents for the first time, in text and pictures,
of his own work. 101 full -color reproductions
or recorded; 576 black-and-white photographs
word -and -color -photo profile of Picasso,
Special gift price to Dec. 31: $24.95. Thereafter: $30.00
Herbert J. MuUer's FREEDOM IN THE ANCIENT WORLD
is "first-class history , . . authoritative, tolerant, steeped in lessons
for our own times." — TV. Y. Times. Illustrated. $7.50
"Better than anything I have ever read on the Alamo, and then ten times better
than that," says Maury Maverick, Jr. of A TIME TO STAND: The Epic of the
Uamo Seen as a Great National Experience by Walter Lord. Illustrated. $4.95
Bill Mauldin^s WHAT^S GOT YOUR
more than 200 recent cartoons
wields "the hottest editorial brush
BACK UP? brmgsyou
by the Pulitzer Prize-winner who
jp in America."— Time. $3.95
\ "fine, rueful
mandatory
comedy" (N. Y. Times) of a badgered businessman coming to grips with
retirement— CHAIRMAN OF THE BORED by Edward Streeter.
$3.95
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ELEANOR ROOSEVELT
has "all the honesty, warmth and clear-minded intelligence for which
she is loved and respected." — Adlai E. Stevenson. Illustrated. $6.95 \
A great quality cook book for the home
aOK BOOK, ed. by Craig Claiborne.
by the Times food staff and kitchens.
kitchen— THE NEW YORK TIMES
In 752 pages, nearly 1500 recipes, all tested
Illustrated. Special gift price to Dec. 31 : $7.50
Thereafter: $8.95
.«*. There's pleasure all the way in Emily Kitnbrough^s PLEASURE
BY THE BUSLOAD — the happiness and mishaps of a month-long
journey through Portugal's enchanting byways. Drawings by Vasiliu. $3.95
For the whole family — Richard B. Morrises
AMERICAN HISTORY, revised and enlarged,
pages of up-to-the-minute information on America's
Special gift price to Dec. 31 : $7.50
ENCYCLOPEDIA OF
offers 800 immensely readable
past and present.
Thereafter: $8.50
AT ALL BOOKSTORES
lW{)eii(^lW4-
1962 WARNING
from The
Wall Street Journal
During the next three months, you
will need to keep up to the minute on
news affecting your future and the fu-
ture of your business.
Because the reports in The Wall Street
Journal come to you DAILY, you get
the fastest possible warning of any new
trend that may affect your business and
personal income. You get the facts in
time to protect your interests or to seize
quickly a new profit-making opportunity.
To assure speedy delivery to you any-
where in the United States, The Journal
is printed daily in seven cities from coast
to coast. You are promptly and reliably
informed on every major new develop-
ment regarding Prices, Taxes, Consumer
Buying, Government Spending, Inven-
tories, Financing, Production Trends,
Commodities, Securities, Marketing and
New Legislation.
The Wall Street Journal has the largest
staff of writers on business and finance. It
costs $24 a year, but in order to acquaint
you with The Journal, we make this
offer: You can get a Trial Subscription
for three months for $7. Just send this ad
with check for $7. Or tell us to bill you.
Address: The Wall Street Journal. 44
Broad St., New York 4, N. Y. HM-12
rxTxTx^lxlXiXixixixixi
Basic Writings
Selected and Introduced by
WALTER KAVFAWJN
The dramatic development of
religion during the past one
hundred years — told directly
in the words of the men who
molded modern religious
thought and morality:
Tolstoy Freud
Dostoevsky Niemoller
W. James Barth
Royce Schweitzer
Tillich Buber
Wilde Camus
. . . and many others
$6.95 at your bookseller
HARPER & BROTHERS, N. Y. 16
1961's leading fiction best seller
is also 1961's leading gift book
THE AGONY
AND
THE
by Irving Stone
A novel of Michelangelo
644 pages, $5.95 DOUBLEDAY
No bed-table
is complete
without
THE PHILOSOPHY
OF THE BED
By Mary Eden & Richard Carrington
Does for bed.s what Audubon did
for bird.s. Erudite, opulent, and
illustrated with Rreat beds of all
time. Fabulous f^ift. $5.95 at all
bookstores.
G.P.PUTNAM'S SONS
He taught Hitler his trade . . .
and dragged ail Europe along on
"THE WILD ADVENTURE
THAT WAS HIS LIFE."
4 f I
by Laura
Fermi
16 pages of illustrations. $5.95
UNIVERSITY OF CHICAGO PRESS
BOOKS IN BRIEF
ever the price. Where wisdom may
have failed her, heart, in the sense
of courage, has not. It is an astonish-
ing book and to me a fascinating
one. Atheneum, $5
Several authors well known to
Harper's readers now have books in
the bookstores:
The Beer Can by the Highway, by
John Kouwenhoven.
The title of the book is the origi-
nal title of an article which we ran
in the magazine as "Waste Not,
Have Not," and one of the other
essays, "What's American About
America," was also published in our
pages. They were good as articles
^nd now revised and worked into a
larger frame of ideas, are better still.
Mr. Kouwenhoven's is one of the
most original and lively minds look-
ing at America today.
Doubleday, |4.50
A Shooting Star, by Wallace Stegner.
Over the past twenty years Mr.
Stegner has been one of our most
consistent and most welcome con-
tributors, usually with short stories
but occasionally, as in "Corsica Out
of Season" in the October issue, with
delightful personal essays. There
can't be many of his admirers who
missed this best-selling novel, his
eighth, published in May, but if any
has, put it down on the Christmas
list at once. It is a modern story, set
in California, of the spiritual de-
cline of a rich, well-brought-up, ap-
parently well-adapted doctor's wife,
the forces that caused her rebellion,
and those that finally suggest hope
for rehabilitation. Viking, $5
The Death and Life of Great Ameri-
can Cities, by Jane Jacobs.
"Violence in the City Streets" was
the title of the part of this brilliant
dissection of inban living which wex
published in the September issue.
Random House. $5.95
Waters of the New World, by Jan de
Hartog. Drawings by Jo Spier.
The story of a boat trip along the
whole length of the Intracoastal
Waterway, from Houston, Texas,
through New Orleans, Mississippi
y\labama, Georgia, Florida, and up
the inland Atlantic Coast to Nan-
iiuket. As all who read "Robinson
Ciijsoe in Florida" in the August
BOOKS IN BRIEF
issue will readily believe, this is not
simply re])orting; it is reflective, al-
lusive writing which reaches out to
include an astonishing variety of
subjects and ideas. Atheneum, $5.95
Dag Hammarskjold: Custodian of
the Brushfire Peace, by Joseph P.
Lash.
In October 1959 Harper's ran an
article by Mr. Lash called "The Man
on the 38th Floor." It was in a way
the beginning of this biography
which, after two years of work, was
already in galleys when the final
tragic chapter occurred. Mr. Lash,
UN reporter for the New York Post
since 1950, has added an epilogue
and the publishers have rushed the
book to press. Doubleday, $4.50
The Tiber Was Silver, by Michael
Novak.
"God in the Colleges" was Mr.
Novak's piece in our college sup-
plement in October. His novel is
about a young theological student in
Rome who discovers that he has
great artistic talent which conflicts
Avith the vows which he is about to
take. Doubleday, $3.95
Faith of a Heretic, by Walter Kauf-
mann.
This book is a development of the
ideas in the article by the same name
which aroused much interest and
controversy in our religious series
a year or so ago. Since the book is
not a collection of essays but the
integrated, progressive, unfolding of
an idea, the essay itself is not in the
volume. Doubleday, $4.50
Imitations, by Robert Lowell.
In the words of the author, this
is a book of "versions and free
translations" of some of the work of
eighteen poets of various nationali-
ties. "Seven Poems by Boris Paster-
nak" appeared in our September
issue. Farrar, Straus & Cudahy, S4.50
The Struggle for Algeria, by Joseph
Kraft.
An analysis and summary of
France's great unresolved problem
by a reporter whose articles on the
subject won the Overseas Press Club
Award for the Best Magazine Re-
porting of Foreign Affairs. In
November Ave published his article,
"The Comeback of the State Depart-
ment." Doubleday, $4.50
Do you dare to get involved ?
Here, a naked portrait of jealousy. A healthy defense or neurotic syndrome? Find
out in the unusual and lucid pages of Realites magazine. In fact, you will see, feel
and share in all types of experiences, for Realites is Realism.
Month after month, Realites takes you on an escapade with professional camera
and pen down the many different avenues of life on the Continent: the arts, current
events, fashion, food, philosophy, politics, travel— topics of great interest ... topics
of delight, always the things that make European living all-enveloping.
Be intellectually engrossed ... be entertained by France's foremost commentators
and journalists. Keep Realites within arm's reach to see, perhaps study, the valuable
collection of paintings and photographs ingeniously reproduced on heavy varnished
paper. You might even agree with the critics who call this "The Most Beautiful
Magazine In The World."
Mailed direct from Paris, Realites is available in English-language or French-
language editions. Treat yourself, and particular friends or relatives, to the thor-
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Available by subscription only. Special rate, $12.50 a year,:
Realites
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BOOKS IN BRIEF
Majesty and Mischief, by William S.
White.
"A Mixed Tribute to F.D.R." is
the subtitle of this new book by our
Washington correspondent.
McGraw-Hill, $4.50
Campus, U.S.A.: Portraits of Ameri-
can Colleges in Action, by David
Boroff.
Many of the separate essays in this
book appeared first in Harper's but
several new campuses and much
other material have been added.
Harper, $4.50
The Darkening Glass: A Portrait of
Ruskin's Genius, by John D. Rosen-
berg.
In August Mr. Rosenberg wrote us
a very funny piece on his run-in with
the Treasury Department on his in-
come tax. It was called "A Matter
of Motive." In this book Professor
Rosenberg (A.B., M.A., Ph.D., Co-
lumbia; A.B., M.A., Cambridge, Eng-
land) writes with equal grace on the
scholarly subject which has been oc-
cupying him for many years.
Columbia, $5
Humor from Harper's, edited by
John Fischer and Lucy Donaldson.
Introduction by Ogden Nash.
Perhaps this hajipy anthology
should have led all the other books
by Harper authors, since every gay
and funny piece by definition ap-
peared first in the magazine; it was
j3ut together by two Harper's editors;
and Ogden Nash's poem, "Pavane
for a Dead Doll," is on page 33 of
this issue.
Harper, $4.50 to December 31,
$4.95 thereafter
Who says the essay is dead? Three
delightful collections have recently
been published:
Reflections of a Jacobite, by Louis
Auchincloss.
Mr. Auchincloss, discerning novel-
ist of manners, who wrote for us last
month on Mark Schorer's biography
of Sinclair Lewis, here discusses
the work of some other novelists-
French, English, and American— past,
and j)resent. Houghton Mifllin, $4
The Happy Critic, by Mark Van
Doren.
1 he Pulit/er Prize-winning poet
and distinguished short-story writer
and teacher, whose work has often
been in our pages, here returns to
criticism and the essay in most charm-
ing vein. Hill and Wang, $3.50
Some Reflections on Genius and
Other Essays, by Russell Brain.
One always wonders in a case like
this how much a man's name has to
do with his choice of profession. Sir
Russell Brain is a famous London
neurologist who in this book, in
fourteen essays in the most varied
fields, examines the mental processes
of fourteen artists and men of letters.
Among others, there is one delicious
three-page description of Grock, the
inimitable clown. Lippincott, $4.50
Three books for Christmas giving
to lovers of nature and the country,
all illustrated, all written with an
engaging narrative quality:
Rural Free: A Farmwife's Almanac
of Country Living, by Rachel Peden,
with drawings by Sidonie Coryn.
This is a chronicle, month by
month, of a year's living on an In-
diana farm. To all who care about
nature and the changing seasons,
reading it will be an evocative and
satisfying experience. By a woman
who since 1946 has ^vritten two
popular columns for Indiana news-
papers. It is very much in the midst
of life. Knopf, $4.95
String Too Short to be Saved; Mem-
ories of a Disappearing New Eng-
land, by Donald Hall, illustrated by
Mimi Korach.
A young poet (whose work we
have published) sets down his recol-
lections of life on a farm, this time
in New Hampshire, and this time
overcast, though not gloomy, with
nostalgia for a way of life that is
passing and a time that is already
past, a man remembering childhood.
Viking, $5
My Wilderness: East to Katahdin, b)
William O. Douglas, illustrated by
Francis Lee Jaques.
As the title indicates, these arc
"adventures in the American wilder-
ness from Arizona to Maine" in the
same style and pattern as the Su-
preme Court Justice's earlier My
Wildertiess: The Pacific Northwest.
Doubleday, $4.95
109
JVl U I^ 1 C< m the round
BY DISCUS
THE BRILLIANCE LASTS
The everlasting mysteries of playing
the baroque masterpieces of the past
present modern artists with new chances
to send shivers down our backs.
Boili were born in 1685— Johann
Sebastian Bach on March 21;
George Frederick Handel on Febru-
ary 23. Hoih went on to become the
greatest conijjosers of their age, and
easily two of the greatest of all time.
Bach, the Leiji/iger, spent most of his
life in Protestant north Germany in
the service of the church— composing
cantata after cantata for the Sunday
services, teaching, raising a large
family, playing the organ (and prob-
ably every other instrument), getting
into fight after fight with the authori-
ties. He had an explosive temper.
Handel, who never married and had
little to do with the church, left
Germany for Italy and, eventually,
England. Where Bach was a pro-
vincial composer, Handel was inter-
national. He was known primarily
as an opera composer and impresario
who made and lost fortunes.
Bach and Handel never met,
though they came near it once. What
a meeting it would have been! They
probably would have taken to each
other, for both respected craft and
both were consummate craftsmen.
Their backgrounds were, basically,
similar; and even if their music rep-
resents different things, they both ex-
emplify the height of the baroque.
And whereas Bach was a provincial,
he had moved enough in high society
and amid nobility to have met Han-
del on his own social terms.
The big difference between the
two men was in temperament.
Handel was outgoing, extroverted,
optimistic. Bach tended to be with-
drawn, more strait-laced, and utterly
more of a bourgeois. Handel's music
breathes a calm acceptance of the
hereafter, while Bach's tends to be
tortured and full of doubt. Bach's
music (so the German scholars tell
us) is full of symbolism; but there is
little symbolism in Handel.
It is only within the last fifteen
years that, thanks to LP, the music
lover has had a chance to probe
deeply into the output of these two
composers. Up to that time, Handel
was synonymous with his Messiah
and a concerto grosso or two. Now
we are familiar with a surprisingly
large number of his oratorios, operas,
instrumental and incidental music.
As for Bach, while he has always
fared better on records and in con-
cert, the LP age has done a spectacu-
lar job of surveying his entire output.
Those who have the time and in-
clination can study, on records, all
of his organ music, all of his major
choral works, much of his lesser
choral and vocal output, virtually all
of his concertos and the greater part
of his keyboard music.
To Milton's Text
And, with composers so prolific,
there is always something turning up
on records. A major choral work by
Handel, L'Allegro ed il Penseroso,
has been added to our discography;
and so have Bach's Three Sonatas for
Harpsichord and Viola da Gamba.
Such has been the proliferation of
Bach and Handel recordings during
the past decade and a half that
neither of these discs is a "first." All
of this music has been previously
recorded. But the Handel work, at
least, is welcome as being the best
available version. About the Bach
there may be a reservation or two.
L'Allegro ed il Penseroso is "an
ode in the dramatic style," composed
in 1740 to Milton's text. The new
recording has Peter Pears, Elsie Mor-
ison, and other singers, with David
Willcocks leading the St. Anthony
Singers and Philomusica of London
(Oiseau-Lyre OL 50195/6, mono-
phonic, 2 discs; SOL 60025/6, stereo.
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This means that every instrument has
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Tracks at pressures as low as one
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The low-moving mass of the orthonetic
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Provides up to 30 decibels per channel
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GENERALSELECTRIC
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What's New
in High FideUty
by Edward Tatnall Canby
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That's why for top musical quality — whether
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Mail coupon for free booklet.
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MUSIC IN THE ROUND
2 discs). This is music with terrific
vitality and, for want of a better
term, "guts." It has infinite variety.
It even" has, as Bach's music almost
never has, humor. A case in point is
the Haste Ye, Nymphs solo and
chorus, with its "Ha-has" and "Ho-
hos." There is the melodic purity
and intensity of the soprano solo.
Come, hut Keep Thy Wonted State.
There is the great soprano aria,
Siveet Bird (recorded so many years
ago by Melba), with its imitation of
the nightingale. There is the jollity
of O Let the Merry Bells Riyjgs Out,
with the delicate tinkle of the caril-
lon as part of the accompaniment.
The score is a masterpiece, and it
here receives a brilliant performance.
Aside from Pears and Morison, the
singers will be unknown to most
Americans, but they are uniformly
good— clear-voiced, tasteful, and un-
usually deft. The orchestra and con-
ductor arc excellent, the recorded
sound all that could be desired. In
years to come this album will be a
collector's item.
No Swarm of Bees
The Bach disc of the Three Sona-
tas for Harpsichord and Viola da
Gamba raises a few problems. In this
disc Sylvia Marlowe is the harpsi-
chordist, but there is no gamba
player. Instead the works are played
on the cello by Bernard Greenhouse
(Decca 10036, monophonic; 710036,
stereo). George Bernard Shaw used
to complain that the cello invariably
reminded him of a bee buzzing in a
stone jug. He may never have heard
the viola da gamba, which resembles
a swarm of bees. It is an obsolete in-
strument, one hard to handle and to
play in tune, and it has a nasal,
stringy sound.
That being the case, the solo part
these days is generally transposed to
viola or cello. Greenhouse is a scrup-
ulous instrumentalist, and Marlowe
an expert harpsichordist. Between
the two of them they present the
uuisic Avith strength and sympathy,
liut the fact remains that we are not
hearing the music as Bach conceived
it. A recording on Decca Archives
.^009 is fortunately available (it came
out a few years ago) fn which the
viola da gamba is used. It docs not
sound ;is smooth as the Grecnliousc-
Marlovvc ( oml)ination, but it is
much more authentic.
TUDOR HISTORY of PAINTING
in 1000 COLOR REPRODUCTIONS
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Covers the entire
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MUSIC IN THE ROUND
For the Sun King
\\'hilc Bach and Handel were
dealing their monumental body of
work, a slicjlitly earlier contemporary
was tinning out some brilliant music
in Ki ance. He was Francois Couperin
(l()r)8-1733), a very important com-
poser. Two discs of his music have
rc(cnilv been issued— the Concerts
Rovaux 3 and 4 (Decca DL 10035,
nionophonic; DL 710035. stereo);
and (lie Lemons des Tenebres (Van-
guard BGS 5039, stereo).
As in Bach's Art of Fugue, there is
some mystery about the way the
Royol Concerts are to be presented.
The (Miginal score exists in a clavier
version, but there is plenty of indica-
tion that it was created for an or-
chestra nd lib. In those days there
was no regular scoring; the composer
look whatever resources were avail-
able for any given performance. In
tins recording by the New York
Chamber Soloists, an edition by
Albert Fuller (who also plays the
harpsidiord here) is used.
The edition is simple and nuisi-
(ianly. Fuller is a fine scholar, and
he never remotely attempts to Sto-
kowski-i/e the nuisic. C^ouperin wrote
it in 1715 for Versailles, lo amuse
Louis XIV. It is, like the Bach and
Handel suites, a collection of dance
movements— elegant and flowing,
and yet ^\hh a certain pomp reflec-
tive of the coiut of the Sim King.
Quite dillereni arc the Lemons des
Tenebres, sung by .\lbert Deller and
Wilfred Bro^vn, ^vith organ and
viola da gamba continuo. These are
settings of the Lamentations of
Jeremiah— haunting, dark-colored,
de\out, gripping. Deller is the fa-
mous British countertenor, who sings
alone in the first two Lemons and is
joined by the other tenor, Brown, in
No. 3. Deller's voice is quite different
from that of his .\merican counter-
part, Russell Oberlin; it is not as
hard or penetrating, and when he
vocalizes it sounds amazingly like
an instrument in the orchestra. In
many respects it probably is close to
the castrato type of voice— sweet,
powerful, and contralto-like— as illus-
tratetl in the records (made around
1905) by Professor Moreschi, the
castrato of the Sistine Chapel Choir.
The recordings of Deller and Ober-
lin have made us familiar with the
sound of the countertenor, but it
•>iill sends shi\ers do^vn the back.
"IF ALL GENIUS IS UNIQUE, THAT OF BEECHAM
...IS MORE UNIQUE THAN OTHERS."
—Desmond Shawe-Taylor, The Sunday Times, London
A magnificent conductor; yes. A supreme musician; without doubt. A
brilliant wit; indeed. But Sir Thomas Beecham was much, much more.
This was the Renaissance man whose glittering personality and great
gifts made him legend in his own time and honored throughout the
world. From the Age of Victoria to this Age of Anxiety, his astonishing
musical career parallels the history of the phonograph.
And thus, this extraordinary two-record Angel album.
Here is the definitive Beecham, in excerpts from priceless
recordings made from 1915 to 1958. What better addition
to any collection than the great works of a truly great man?
Album number 3621B (Monophonic only).
Angel
These superb new Angel releases are particularly recommended:
u
Q
3^
J
1M
COLH 118
LISZT
^*l^
CONCERTO NO. 1
mm .
CONCERTO NO. 2
^fc jii
PIANBT
kSHF '
SAMSON
' \^^
FRANCOIS
V
CONDUCTED BY
CONSTANTIN
.^
SILVESTRI
-,«KSi«»
(S)35971
(5)35901
Angel also presents the 1939 recording of the Schubert Piano Sonata
in D Major, Op, 53, as performed by Amir Sclmabel. (COLH 83)
THE BEST OF CIRCLES!
»•*••••••«,
«
SEGOVIA
Jv^eny Qiiristmas'
BOCCHERINI-CASSADO: Concerto for
» Guitar and Orchestra in E Major •
«. BACH: Suite No. 3.
BING CROSBY sings While Chrisf-
mas, Silent Nighl, Silver Bells,
I Adesle Fideles, I'll Be Home For
m Christmas, and many more.
% DL 8128 (M) • DL 78128 (S) ^®
® « « «
COMING
CHRIST
Jht (IRICINAL STORY .nd Ml'SIC
(M TV AWARD WISNrNC
NKC raojUT XX
TF.LtVlSJDN PROGRAM
RUSSELL OBERLIN, Countertenor
BAROQUE CANTATAS by BUXTEHUDE, *
HANDEL, and TELEMANN •
► DL 9414 (M) • DL 79414 (S) ,*
The original story and music of the
AWARD WINNING N.B.C. PROJECT
XX TELEVISION PROGRAM. Music by «
Robert Russell Bennett . . . the voice •
8 of Alexander Scourby. A deluxe «•
®„ album. DL 9093 (M) .«>
^^ DL 79093 (S) ^s®
«
• •
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**,
«
A T««UihC<nmry Musical Dm.nr. P^^™
ThQ^ Vhxy of Banicb
T^iw'ybik 'PrbMusica
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SHRS^^Z^Bmc^I^I
THEREGENSBUR6ER ^ssl
CATHEDRAL BOYS CHOIR
<iria,(!'i(V<tHt<i»bur(|iTT«ii«»ali(ii|«t%
4(jmSi>ia < lirixinutx .VjMffi*^
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THE PLAY OF DANIEL «
A Twelfth-Century Musical Drama • ®
NewYorkProMusica, Noah^*
Greenberg, Director. ®
»^ DL 9402 (M) • DL 79402 (S) »*
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The world's most beautiful Christmas
songs, sung in German by THE
REGENSBURGER CATHEDRAL BOYS'
CHOIR. A performance of particular
\ warmth. Silertt Night, O Come All Ye^*
Faithful, and many others. «
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The
Exciting
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Stereo
Sound and
Variety of
RECORDS
JAZZ
Eric Larrabee
notes
TOO LATE
Rjcognition is a wonderful thing, but
why can't it ever come when it's
wanted? This question is asked by John
Hammond in the album he has put to-
gether for Columbia, made up of sixty-
four recordings from the 'twenties and
'thirties by Fletcher Henderson's band,
the first big band in jazz. Henders'-n
invented the big band and, so doing, he
invented the Swing Era— but he invenua
it too soon, and little good did it do
him.
The sound that Benny Goodman made
famous— polished ensembles of reeds and
brass, interwoven with powerful and
proficient solos— was the Henderson
sound. Often they were the same tunes,
and if the arrangements sounded like
Henderson's that is because they often
wfre. But Henderson's own band en-
joyed no such popular adulation and ap-
plause. He, although light-skinned and
a college graduate, was a Negro; his
musicians were Negro; and we were not
yet ready then to give a Negro credit for
what the whites grew rich by imitating.
This is no newly uncovered scandal.
The Henderson story has long been es-
tablished in jazz history, and Goodman
himself has never made any secret of his
indebtedness to his predecessor and col
laborator. What is new is the sound ot
these records all in one place Cr'^e
jimount of Henderson previously avail-
able on LP was slight), and the reali/a
tion in hearing them that what one
reads in the books is true. Henderson
drew imto himself strong players, like
Louis Armstrong and Coleman Hawkins,
and provided them with a milieu in
which they could thrive.
He seems to have been an easygoing
man. and a "permissive" leader. Never
a disciplinarian, after a while Hender-
son simply didn't give a damn. John
Hammond tells how he began his career
as an impresario, just out of college, by
trying to book the Henderson band—
which he idolized— for a combination
movie and stage show. The agent
warned him to expect trouble, but Ham-
mond insisted. His theatre's policy was
four shows a day, starting at noon. The
day of the opening, only five men out
of the thirteen in the band showed up.
Mr. Hammond subtitles his Hender-
son album, "A Study in Frustration,"
and adds: "No question about it; he
was frustrated." No indeed.
The Fletcher Henderson Story. The-
saurus of Classic Jazz. Columbia C4L
19 (4).
y^
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